w,'-\< 


xmm 


ONCOR. 


LLEN    FRENCH 


STEB.  G   HORNBY 


OLD     CONCORD 
1915 


COTI^ 


i/;      0\M  )/>'     ^H^oSoPllf^ 


Old  Concord 


^/  Meriam's  Corner 


Old  Concord 


By 

Allen  French 


With  Drawings  by 
Lester  G.  Hornby 


1ALVAD-Q3S 


Boston 
Little,  Brown,  and  Company 


fft 


.C 


.tf* 


Copyright,  igij, 
By  Little,  Brown,  and  Company. 


All  rights  reserved 
Published,  October,  1915 


Norfoiootr  13rcgs 
Set  up  and  electrotyped  by  J.  S.  Cushing  Co.,  Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 

Printed  by 
Louis  E.  Crosscup,  Boston,  U.  S.  A. 


^M-r: 


Preface 


THIS  book,  while  primarily  designed  to  present 
the  points  of  chief  interest  in  the  historical  and 
literary  associations  of  Old  Concord,  may  also  be 
depended  upon  for  its  accuracy.  Its  historical  mat- 
ter I  have  drawn  from  the  Concord  histories  of 
Lemuel  Shattuck  (1835)  and  Charles  H.  Walcott 
(1884),  from  the  Concord  Social  Circle  Memoirs, 
from  the  writings  of  Grindall  Reynolds,  and  from 
the  publications  of  the  Concord  Antiquarian  Soci- 
ety, chiefly  those  by  the  late  George  Tolman.  For 
facts  concerning  Concord's  literary  notables  I  have 
drawn   principally  upon  their   own   writings.     The 

[vii] 


331031 


Prefc 


ace 

book  also  contains  material  from  Concord  tradition 
and  family  knowledge,  not  to  be  found  in  print. 
For  help  in  verifying  my  statements,  and  for  supply- 
ing me  with  much  matter  previously  unknown  to  me, 
I  am  much  indebted  to  my  neighbors  Dr.  Edward 
Waldo  Emerson,  Judge  Prescott  Keyes,  and  Mr. 
Adams  Tolman.  I  am  also  greatly  obliged  for  the 
courteous  help  of  the  librarians  of  the  Concord  Free 
Public  Library,  and  I  desire  to  express  my  thanks  for 
permission  to  quote  directly  from  the  publications 
of  the  Concord  Social  Circle,  Houghton  Mifflin 
Company,  and  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

ALLEN   FRENCH. 

Concord,  Massachusetts. 
June,  1915. 


[  viii  ] 


Contents 

Chapter  Page 

Preface vii 

I.     Retrospective i 

II.     Military  Affairs 35 

III.  Chiefly  Literary 77 

IV.  The  Burying  Grounds 157 

Envoi 177 

Index 181 


[be] 


*r  v-v 


Illustrations 

The  Three  Arch  Stone  Bridge Half-title 

At  Meriam's  Corner Frontispiece 

Page 

The  Old  Mill  Building,  on  the  Milldam     .         .         .         .  vii 
Ephraim  W.  Bull's  "Grapevine  Cottage."     Home  of  the 

Concord  Grape ix 

The  little  Shops  of  the  Milldam  from  the  Square      .         .  xi 

The  Antiquarian  Society's  House I 

The  Unitarian  Church 7 

The  Old  Tree  at  the  Town  Hall 17 

The  Old  Colonial  Inn.     Deacon  White's  Corner        .         .  23 

Across  the  Meadows 35 

The  Wright  Tavern 47 

The  Old  Elisha  Jones  House.     The  House  with  the  Bullet 

Hole 57 

The  Monument  of  1836,  and  across  the  Bridge  the  "Min- 
ute Man"           69 

[xi] 


Illustrations 


R. 


Graves  of  British  Soldiers 

The  Emerson  House 

The  Old  Chapter  House  of  the  D.  A. 

The  Thoreau-Alcott  House 

The  Old  Manse 

The  Hemlocks  .... 

In  Emerson's  Study 

The  Alcott  "Cottage"  (1840-1842)  on  Main  Street 

Orchard  House,  Home  of  the  Alcotts 

Hawthorne's  "Wayside"  . 

Academy  Lane  .... 

Thoreau's  Cairn  at  Walden 

The  Sanborn  House  from  the  River 

In  the  Old  Hill  Burying-ground 

Hawthorne's  Grave  in  Sleepy  Hollow  Cemetery 

The  Ridge  in  Sleepy  Hollow  Cemetery 

The  Old  North  Bridge 


Page 

75 
77 
81 

87 

95 

103 

109 

115 
125 

133 
141 

H7 

153 
157 
167 

173 
177 


[xii] 


Old  Concord 

Retrospective 


r/ 


THE  best  point  from  which  to  begin  to  see  Old 
Concord  is  from  the  narrow  northern  end  of 
the  Square  which  lies  at  the  center  of  the  town. 
Here,  from  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  the  rambling 
buildings  of  the  Colonial  Inn,  one  sees  stretching 
away  an  oblong  grass  plot  of  scarcely  more  than 
half  an  acre,  with  a  granite  obelisk  in  its  middle. 
Beyond  the  oblong,  across  a  strip  of  roadway,  is  a 
grassy  oval,  from  which  rises  a  flagstaff.  These 
open  spaces  constitute  the  Square  at  Concord, 
Massachusetts,  still  a  center  of  town  life,  but  more 
than  that,  a  goal  of  pilgrimage  from  everywhere. 
Here  New  England  farmers  and  housewives  come 
to  attend  lectures  or  town-meeting  or  church,  and 
to  carry  on  many  of  the  public  functions  of  their 
lives.  But  here  also  come  Southerner  and  West- 
erner; here  come  even  Englishman  and  German, 
Japanese  and  Hindu,  to  worship  for  a  day  at  shrines 
not  yet  forgotten. 

A  road  runs  round  the  Square,  and  at  its  farther 

[3] 


Old  Concord 

—  the  southern  —  end,  its  two  parts  converge  into 
a  broad  street  which  seems  to  narrow  as  it  bends 
to  the  left  and  disappears  on  its  way  to  Lexingtbn. 
Its  two  conspicuous  buildings  are  at  its  right :  first 
a  low,  red,  hip-roofed  structure,  the  ancient  Wright 
Tavern,  where  Pitcairn  stirred  his  brandy;  then, 
rising  above  it,  the  white  Unitarian  church,  around 
whose  site  cluster  many  memories.  As  the  eye 
travels  from  these  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  street, 
and  so  back  along  the  left  of  the  Square,  one  sees 
first  a  dwelling,  then  a  little  burying-ground  that 
climbs  a  hill,  the  Catholic  church,  the  opening  of 
Bedford  Street,  the  big  red-and-brown  Town  Hall, 
and  the  square,  buff  Court-house.  Or  looking  from 
the  church  and  tavern  along  the  right  side  of  the 
Square,  one  sees  first  the  beginning  of  the  Milldam 
(Concord's  short  business  street,  closely  lined  with 
stores),  then  the  neatly  planted  open  space  of  the 
Middlesex  Grounds,  then  the  priest's  residence,  the 
Catholic  parish  house,  the  brick  Masonic  Lodge, 
and  the  new  Christian  Science  church. 

Across  the  Milldam  and  around  the  Square  move 
quiet  trade,  pleasant  social  life,  the  town's  simple 
business ;  and  except  in  winter  there  ebbs  and 
flows  here  the  tide  of  tourists  in  livery  carriage  or 
automobile,  on  bicycle  or  on  foot.     But  still  stand- 

[4] 


Retrospective 

ing  at  this  northerly  end  of  the  Square,  one  can 
leave  these  commonplace  modern  matters,  and  can 
call  up  visions  of  many  changes. 

In  1850,  or  thereabout,  the  town  was  very  differ- 
ent. Only  a  few  years  before,  Bronson  Alcott  had 
brought  his  family  to  Concord,  so  he  tells  us,  from 
up-country  on  an  ox-sled.  So  much  for  simple 
traveling  in  the  middle  of  the  century.  But  the 
railroad  had  just  come  to  Concord  too,  competing 
with  old  Deacon  Brown's  stage-coach  that  ran  tri- 
weekly to  Boston,  and  with  the  stage-lines  to  the 
west  that,  before  the  railroad,  carried  to  or  through 
Concord  as  many  as  four  hundred  passengers  a 
week.  On  the  Middlesex  Grounds  stood  then  the 
Middlesex  Hotel,  many-columned,  three-storied, 
spick  and  span,  and  overflowing,  in  its  season,  into 
the  four  other  prosperous  hostels  which  the  town 
maintained.  For  the  county  court  came  here  twice 
yearly  for  long  sessions ;  and  the  lawyers,  their 
clients,  the  uniformed  court  officers,  and  the  various 
hangers-on,  with  their  inevitable  bustle,  gave  the 
Square  the  appearance  of  holding  a  fair.  Here  in 
the  crowd  the  future  Doctor  Jarvis,  a  lank  boy 
with  an  unforgettable  voice,  sold  the  gingerbread 
of  his  father  the  deacon  (baked  under  the  building 
which    had    been,    and   would    be   again,    Wright's 

[5] 


Old  Concord 

Tavern)  and  received  in  change  the  counterfeit 
quarter-dollar  which  cut  sadly  into  the  day's  profits. 
Years  after,  in  a  Boston  bookstore,  the  voice  re- 
vealed him  to  his  deceiver  —  not  a  sharper,  but 
another  boy,  and  very  hungry  —  who  abated  in 
trade  the  twenty-five  cents,  as  conscience  money. 
The  Square's  only  formal  planting  in  those  days 
was  an  oval  grass-patch  that  broke  the  line  of  Bed- 
ford Street  and  the  Milldam.  No  obelisk  was  as 
yet  to  be  seen,  and  wheel  tracks  crisscrossed  the 
untended  space  where  it  was  later  to  stand.  The 
buildings  of  the  Colonial  Inn  were  then  three  private 
residences,  in  the  right  hand  one  of  which,  where  the 
Thoreau  family  had  been  brought  up,  still  lived  the 
spinster  sisters,  aunts  of  Henry  Thoreau.  The 
nucleus  of  the  Christian  Science  church  was  then  a 
private  house ;  the  Masonic  lodge  building  had  but 
lately  been  the  school  where  the  young  Thoreau 
tried  his  famous  experiment  in  flogging.  There  was 
then  no  Catholic  parish  in  Concord,  and  the  priest's 
residence  was  the  "county  house,"  the  dwelling  of 
the  keeper  of  the  jail  that  stood  behind  —  of  which 
also  Thoreau  had  his  taste.  On  the  site  of  the 
Catholic  church  stood  the  "green  store"  which 
supplied  ropes  and  disguises  to  the  young  men  of 
the    town,    when    they    marched    down    Lexington 

[6] 


sf§£C 


1      «*         P  -V^zr? 


\ 


The  Unitarian  Church 


Retrospective 

Road  one  dark  night,  intending  to  do  a  service  to 
Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.  The  Court-house  was  just 
building  in  1850;  the  Town  Hall  was  not  erected 
till  five  years  later.  The  Universalist  church,  which 
since  has  vanished,  then  stood  hard  by  in  Bedford 
Street;  it  took  its  origin  at  the  meeting  called  by 
posted  notice,  summoning  all  persons  in  favor  of 
the  universal  salvation  of  all  mankind  to  meet  at 
Bigelow's  Tavern  and  choose  officers.  The  Uni- 
tarian church  was  in  the  early  glory  of  its  new  belfry, 
for  it  was  but  a  few  years  since  the  building  was 
turned  to  face  Lexington  Road,  the  Grecian  portico 
added,  and  the  slender  spire  removed.  And  Con- 
cord, not  then  a  suburb  but  a  self-sufficing  com- 
munity, was  a  fine  example  of  a  thriving  shire  town. 
As  for  tourists  in  the  fifties,  there  were  none. 
To  be  sure,  strangers  came,  but  they  were  mostly 
visitors  of  certain  residents  who  all  belonged  to  the 
peculiar  class  of  writers.  The  usefulness  of  some 
of  these  inhabitants  the  town  took  the  liberty  of 
doubting.  The  names  of  the  freeholders  among 
them  were  marked  on  the  town  map  of  1852. 
"R.  W.  Emerson,"  whose  house  was  at  the  junc- 
tion of  Lexington  Road  and  the  Cambridge  Turn- 
pike, the  town  indeed  knew  well.  Was  not  his 
grandfather  here  at  the  time  of  the  Fight,  he  who 

[9] 


Old  Concord 

urged  the  militia  to  take  their  stand  in  the  town 
itself  ?  This  William  Emerson  built  the  Manse  a 
few  years  before  he  went  away  to  die  in  the  Revolu- 
tionary War ;  and  periodically  young  Ralph  and  his 
brothers  had  visited  here  in  the  old  house,  under 
the  kindly  eye  of  old  Doctor  Ripley,  who  married 
their  grandfather's  widow.  And  since  1832,  when 
he  came  here  to  live,  the  philosopher  had  brought 
credit  to  the  town  by  his  writings  —  except  for  his 
antislavery  notions.  Yes,  Emerson  the  town  knew 
well,  and  on  the  whole  was  proud  of  him. 

"J.  Thoreau's"  name  was  marked,  on  the  map, 
against  a  house  on  Main  Street.  He  too  was  a 
dependable  person,  and  had  brought  up  his  family 
as  a  respectable  man  should.  But  his  son  Henry 
turned  out  odd  enough,  even  if  his  name  were  known 
as  far  as  New  York,  or  even  England.  He  had 
never  made  his  way  in  the  world;  he  would  earn 
only  enough  to  keep  him,  though  he  was  smart 
enough  when  he  improved  his  father's  pencil-making 
machinery.  But  having  done  that,  he  went  out  to 
Walden  Pond  and  spent  two  years  alone  in  a  shanty. 
What  could  be  done  with  such  a  man  ? 

Thus  it  was  plain  to  the  town  that  some  of  the 
Concord  folk  whom  strangers  came  to  see  were 
rather  queer.     There  was,  for  example,  this  "Nathl. 

[10] 


Retrospective 

Hawthorne,"  whose  name  stood  on  the  map  against 
the  Lexington  Road  house  which  Mr.  Alcott  sold 
when,  following  another  of  his  strange  ideas,  he  went 
to  Boston.  Mr.  Hawthorne  was  becoming  cele- 
brated, so  people  heard,  from  his  book  about  a 
scarlet  letter;  but  he  was  so  unsocial  that  he  took 
to  the  woods  when  people  came  to  visit  him. 
Didn't  he  use  to  stand  in  his  garden  at  the  Manse 
and  dream,  in  full  sight  of  the  road,  instead  of 
working  ?  The  man  lived  in  a  dream !  When 
Emerson's  little  son  showed  Mr.  Hawthorne  some 
pictures  of  this  very  Square,  he  asked  what  place  it 
was  !  And  he  had  passed  through  it  hundreds  of 
times. 

Also  this  "W.  E.  Channing,"  who  owned  a  house 
on  Main  Street  opposite  Thoreau's :  he  might  be  a 
poet,  but  he  was  as  unsociable  as  Mr.  Hawthorne, 
and  he  walked  more  miles  in  the  fields  and  woods 
than  any  other  man  besides  Henry  Thoreau. 

Naturally  the  town  looked  askance  at  the  strangers 
who  came  to  visit  these  men.  Some  of  the  visitors 
were  certainly  famous,  and  were  inoffensive  enough. 
But  others  were  mighty  queer.  Those  men  with 
long  hair,  and  women  with  short,  and  cranks  with 
schemes  to  make  the  world  over,  or  with  diets,  or 
methods  of  dress  —    Why,  they  swarmed  like  bees 


Old  Concord 

around  Mr.  Emerson's  door,  and  the  poor  man 
could  hardly  get  rid  of  them.  Transcendentalists 
they  called  themselves  —  and  no  one  could  give  a 
satisfactory  meaning  to  the  word  ! 

And  there  was  surely  smuggling  of  slaves  through 
Concord  by  means  of  the  Underground  Railroad. 
Of  course  the  men  who  took  the  risk  were  so  cau- 
tious that  it  would  be  hard  to  prove  anything  against 
them;  but  still,  the  town  had  its  opinions.  The 
Thoreaus  were  abolitionists,  parents  and  children; 
it  was  said  that  Henry  hid  slaves  in  his  hut  at 
Walden.  It  was  curious  that  when  strange  negroes 
took  the  west-bound  train,  Henry  Thoreau  was 
very  likely  to  board  it  with  them,  buying  tickets  to 
Canada  but  returning  too  soon  to  have  used  them 
himself.  Miss  Mary  Rice,  the  odd  little  spinster 
who  planted  the  lilies  on  John  Jack's  grave,  was 
said  to  have  had  a  cubby-hole  built  in  her  house 
for  the  special  purpose  of  hiding  runaways.  And 
Edwin  Bigelow  the  blacksmith,  who  was  on  the 
jury  for  trying  those  who  took  the  slave  Shadrach 
away  from  his  jailers  in  Boston  —  Edwin  Bigelow 
was  the  very  man  who  harbored  Shadrach  in  Concord 
and  drove  him  to  Leominster  on  his  way  to  freedom! 

It  was  all  a  very  dubious  business  and  clearly 
against  the  law.     It  was  even  a  very  ticklish  matter 

[12] 


Retrospective 

for  young  Mr.  Frank  B.  Sanborn  to  have  John 
Brown,  the  Kansas  abolitionist,  here  in  Concord 
to  give  an  address.  The  frontiersman  slept  with  a 
big  knife  at  his  side  and  a  brass-bound  pistol  under 
his  pillow.  Next  would  come  United  States  marshals 
with  warrants  to  arrest  Concord  citizens. 

But  though  the  grumblers  did  not  so  recognize  it, 
the  mid-century  period  was  a  great  one  in  Con- 
cord's development.  Great  thoughts  were  being 
conceived,  great  books  being  written,  by  her  citi- 
zens. And  even  those  who  took  the  conservative 
stand,  shaking  doubtful  heads  at  antislavery  and 
the  Underground  Railroad,  were  slowly  being 
trained  to  meet  the  day  when,  not  far  ahead,  the 
call  should  come  for  Concord's  soldiers.  The  only 
thing  to  depress  them  then  was  the  rumor  that  the 
company  was  not  to  be  allowed  to  go.  To  be  sure, 
old  David  Buttrick  had  wise  advice  for  his  sons : 
"Don't  go  now.  This  ain't  to  be  a  short  war,  and 
the  time  will  come  when  they'll  pay  a  bonus."  And 
Humphrey  Buttrick  seemed  to  have  taken  the  ad- 
vice. He  had  a  family  to  maintain,  and  withdrew 
from  the  company,  to  the  noisy  scorn  of  a  neighbor. 
But  when  the  time  came  to  march,  Humphrey  pre- 
sented himself,  and  the  scorner  was  not  there ;  so 
his  uniform  was  sent  for,  and  Humphrey  marched 

[13] 


Old  Concord 

away  in  it.     And  David,  standing  by  his  ox-team, 
waved  good-by  to  all  his  sons. 

In  the  fifties,  Concord  seemed  one  large  family, 
intimately  acquainted  with  each  other's  affairs. 
There  may  have  been  family  quarrels  over  politics, 
over  town  offices,  but  they  left  no  bad  blood.  Even 
the  question  of  temperance,  which  came  nearer 
home  than  slavery,  made  no  feuds.  The  nearest 
to  a  show  of  ill-feeling  was  roused  by  Doctor  Bart- 
lett,  who  through  his  practice  knew  most  of  the 
evils  of  drink,  and  who  attacked  the  rumsellers 
unsparingly.  Once  his  opponents  took  the  nut 
from  his  wheel,  causing  him  a  fall;  and  once  they 
cut  off  the  tail  of  his  horse  and  slit  his  chaise  cur- 
tains to  ribbons;  but  horse  and  chaise  the  doctor 
continued  to  drive  as  they  were,  to  the  shame  of 
his  persecutors.  A  "character"  the  old  doctor  may 
have  been  throughout  the  fifty-seven  years  of  his 
Concord  practice;  but  he  left  an  enviable  record 
of  public  and  private  service.  And  it  needed  char- 
acter to  rise  to  note  in  that  place  and  time  of  strong 
personalities,  bred  on  New  England  soil,  and  with 
all  the  Yankee  characteristics  not  yet  smoothed  out 
by  prosperity  and  outside  intercourse.  The  lives 
of  these  men,  written  in  Concord's  Dictionary  of 
Biography,  the  Social  Circle  Memoirs,   permit  an 

[14] 


Retrospective 

intimate  view  of  a  community  kindly  and  helpful, 
yet  also  shrewd,  witty,  penetrating  in  criticism, 
and  unsparing  in  attack. 

Yet  on  the  whole  those  were  easy-going  times. 
Because  Puritanism  had  gone  by,  and  the  stern  call 
of  war  had  not  yet  come,  there  was  still  tolerance 
for  the  two  great  inherited  social  evils,  slavery 
and  intemperance.  Ways  of  living  were  very 
simple,  in  spite  of  new  improvements  in  stoves, 
and  lamps,  and  imported  luxuries.  Easy-going  days 
those  were,  when  the  temperance  lecturer  was  in- 
vited by  the  committee  to  the  hotel,  and  flip  was 
passed  around.  Easy-going  when  the  judge,  find- 
ing that  the  jailer  had  taken  his  prisoners  out  hay- 
ing, adjourned  court  till  the  work  should  be  done. 
Especially  easy-going  when  the  bank  cashier  left 
the  safe  open  when  he  locked  the  front  door,  and 
so  during  his  lunch-hour,  one  fine  day,  lost  the 
little  sum  of  three  hundred  thousand  dollars. 

But  let  us  go  back  another  fifty  years.  In  1800 
there  was  no  railway ;  over  the  wretched  roads  (for 
turnpikes  were  not  yet  general)  struggled  but  a 
single  coach ;  and  the  one  daily  mail  and  the  weekly 
newspaper  were  uncertain  in  their  arrival.  Concord 
lived  very  much  by  itself.  Though  the  county 
courts  sat  here,  in  a  smaller  and  quainter  building, 

[15] 


Old  Concord 

the  volume  of  business  was  slight.  There  was  no 
level  space  for  the  Town  Hall  and  Bedford  Street; 
but  the  flagpole  on  the  ridge  was  already  in  danger 
from  the  cutting  in  the  gravel  pit  which  would 
finally  grow  big  enough  to  make  room  for  them. 
The  Meeting-house  then  faced  the  Square;  over 
its  portico  was  a  graceful  spire  whose  removal  the 
older  inhabitants  were  later  so  much  to  regret, 
offering  in  vain  to  replace  it.  By  the  tavern  stood 
the  single  little  fire-engine  house  that  served  the 
whole  town.  The  Milldam  was  really  a  milldam, 
and  though  the  stores  that  lined  it  cut  off  the  view 
of  the  pond  which  business  was  soon  to  abolish,  the 
old  mill  was  still  in  active  use.  The  Middlesex 
Hotel  site  held  the  Jail  Tavern,  hiding  the  old 
stone  jail.  Beyond  the  County  House  was  the 
wooden  schoolhouse  where  the  brick  one  was  later 
to  stand.  The  dwellings  at  the  end  of  the  Square 
were  used  for  trade,  having  little  shops  either  in 
their  fronts  or  in  sheds  close  by.  The  Square  was 
unplanted ;  it  was  the  Common  then,  and  the  only 
visible  object  that  broke  its  surface,  except  for  the 
elm  on  its  eastern  side  —  in  those  days  used  as  a 
whipping-post  and  even  to-day  holding  somewhere 
within  its  bark  the  staple  to  which  offenders  were 
tied  for  punishment  —  was  the  town  pump. 

[16] 


# 


The  Old  Tree  at  the  Tozvn  Hall 


Retrospective 

Other  differences  could  be  seen  in  the  town. 
There  was  much  more  woodland,  and  the  oaks  on 
top  of  Lee's  Hill,  until  recently  owned  by  the  traitor 
himself,  had  just  been  cut  for  the  frigate  which 
they  were  building  in  Boston,  to  be  named  the 
Constitution.  And  the  life  in  Concord  was  very 
simple.  There  was  but  one  church,  at  which  all 
religious  people  assembled  twice  on  Sunday  for 
three-hour  services,  "the  old,  cold,  unpainted, 
un carpeted,  square-pewed  meeting-house,"  which 
Emerson  remembered  so  well,  "with  its  four  iron- 
gray  deacons  in  the  little  box  under  the  pulpit, 
with  Watts'  hymns,  with  long  prayers  rich  with  the 
diction  of  ages,  and  not  less  with  the  report  like 
musketry  from  the  movable  seats."  There  were  no 
lectures,  and  the  new  library  society  must  wait  an- 
other thirty-five  years  before  it  accumulated  nine 
hundred  volumes.  There  were  almost  no  amuse- 
ments, scarcely  even  the  pleasure  of  shopping,  for 
Concord  stores  were  very  few.  But  to  make  up  for 
this,  Concord  people  were  very  busy  with  the  work 
of  procuring  their  necessaries. 

To  begin  with,  a  century  ago,  almost  every  one 
in  Concord,  even  the  mechanics,  the  one  doctor, 
the  one  lawyer,  and  the  minister  himself,  made  much 
if  not  all  of  his  living  by  farming.     This  meant  hard 

[19] 


Old  Concord 

and  continuous  labor,  extending  even  to  the  women. 
To  preserve  from  spoiling,  all  beef  and  pork  that 
was  not  immediately  eaten  must  be  salted  or  cured, 
for  there  was  no  ice.  So  every  dwelling  had  its 
brine  barrel,  and  its  smoke-house  for  the  curing  of 
hams.  There  were  candle-molds  hanging  in  each 
kitchen,  in  which  the  housewife  could  make  four, 
six,  or  a  dozen  candles  at  a  time.  There  were  other 
implements  also:  the  hackle,  the  flax-comb,  the 
wool-cards,  the  dye-pot,  the  wool-wheel,  and  the 
spinning-wheel ;  and  in  most  houses  there  was  still 
the  loom.  And  these,  which  were  used  for  making 
the  clothes  for  the  family,  meant  work  for  every 
one.  The  flax  was  grown  on  the  farm,  the  wool 
was  raised  there,  and  the  men  (a  hard-working, 
hard-drinking  race)  cut  the  crop  and  sheared  the 
sheep,  in  the  proper  season.  A  little  cotton  was 
bought  or  bartered.  The  women  did  the  rest.  The 
rotted  flax  was  hackled  and  combed,  the  cleaned 
wool  was  carded  into  its  little  white  rolls,  the  women 
walked  miles  at  the  wool-wheel,  or  sat  uncounted 
evenings  at  the  flax-wheel;  they  dyed  the  skeins, 
set  up  the  loom,  wove  the  woolen  cloth,  the  linsey- 
woolsey,  the  linen  sheets  and  spreads  and  curtains. 
Fine  work  they  did,  these  ancestresses  of  ours,  with 
patterns  handed  down  from  their  grandmothers,  or 

1 20] 


Retrospective 

combined  from  ancient  designs,  expressing  here,  and 
here  only,  their  sense  of  the  beautiful. 

And  for  the  children,  the  life  was  not  easy.  Early 
and  late  they  had  to  help  their  elders.  At  astonish- 
ingly early  ages  the  little  girls  were  set  to  making  the 
samplers  which  nowadays  we  collect  but  cannot  imi- 
tate. School  perambulated  like  the  cobbler,  from 
district  to  district;  and  the  teachings  were  only  of 
the  rudiments.  The  pleasure  of  reading  was  lack- 
ing, for  there  were  no  magazines  or  story-books, 
and  even  for  the  grown-ups  there  were  no  novels. 
Tired  little  folk  nodded  by  the  fireside  while  the 
parents  gossiped  or  discussed  theology,  for  the 
Unitarian  controversy  was  upon  the  land.  Or  the 
children  crept  up-stairs  to  their  chilly  rooms,  begged 
for  the  warming-pan  between  the  cold  sheets,  and 
drew  the  bed-curtains  close  about.  Romantic  it 
may  be,  seen  through  rose-colored  spectacles  a 
hundred  years  later ;  but  at  the  time,  the  life  was 
sad  and  drab. 

One  feature  of  the  period  was  the  prohibition  of 
Sunday  traveling.  Deacons  and  other  such  severe 
persons  took  it  upon  themselves  to  watch  the  roads 
and  to  halt  all  travelers  between  Saturday  and 
Sunday  sunset.  Of  Deacon  White,  who  lived  at  the 
corner  of  the  Square  and  guarded  Lowell  Road, 

[21] 


Old  Concord 

they  tell  that  on  a  Sunday  morning  he  stopped  a 
teamster  on  his  way  home  and  forbade  further 
progress.  The  teamster  tied  his  horses  at  the 
deacon's  gate,  sat  (smock  frock  beside  broadcloth) 
at  church  in  the  deacon's  pew,  ate  of  the  deacon's 
dinner,  sat  again  through  the  afternoon  service, 
partook  of  the  deacon's  supper,  until  at  last  the 
good  man  saw  with  relief  that  the  sun  was  down 
and  bade  his  guest  proceed.  Years  later  Samuel 
Hoar  also  was  diligent  in  stopping  travelers.  One 
farmer,  ruefully  studying  the  destruction  caused 
in  his  crops  by  a  tornado,  found  his  only  relief  in 
the  ejaculation :  "I  wish  this  tornado  had  come  last 
Sunday.  I  should  have  liked  to  see  whether  Sam 
Hoar  would  have  tried  to  stop  it !" 

Another  fifty  years  back,  to  1750,  reveals  less 
change.  Yet  there  were  two  notable  differences,  for 
folk  talked  of  their  king  and  looked  with  friendly 
interest  upon  traveling  redcoats,  asking  them  of 
the  war  with  France.  People  spoke  of  England  as 
"home."  George  the  Third  was  not  to  come  to 
the  throne  for  ten  years ;  and  the  days  of  Whig 
and  Tory,  and  of  the  fight  for  independence,  were  a 
generation  in  the  future.  Concord  was  smaller, 
even  more  isolated  and  provincial,  with  the  houses 
clustered  in  little  villages.     The  Square  was  shape- 


The  Old  Colonial  Inn — Deacon  White's  Corner 


Retrospective 

less  and  neglected ;  the  Town  House,  the  meeting- 
house (barn-like,  yet  destined  to  harbor  Harvard 
College),  the  new  little  tavern,  and  the  jail,  were 
the  chief  public  buildings.  There  was  the  yearly 
excitement  of  "seating  the  meeting-house,"  when 
the  parish  committee  was  driven  to  its  wits'  end, 
and  the  town  stirred  to  its  depths,  by  hurt  and 
angry  feelings.  But  the  home  drudgery,  the  lack 
of  amusements,  the  sadness  and  drabness,  were 
more  marked  than  later. 

When  we  get  to  the  year  1700,  we  find  one  other 
factor  in  life :  the  unforgettable  dread  that  the 
Indians  may  swoop  down,  as  was  done  to  Concord's 
neighbor  in  Philip's  War,  scarcely  fourteen  years 
before,  and  as  would  be  done  to  Deerfield  yet. 
The  daily  life  was  very  laborious.  And  Concord 
was  very  primitive,  since  the  little  meeting-house 
was  used  for  church,  for  town-meeting,  and  for  a 
court  when  necessary.  As  for  hotels  or  taverns, 
there  were  none,  nor  stores,  nor  much  more  than 
bridle-paths  for  the  pedlars  who  alone  brought  finery 
to  town. 

Sixty-five  years  farther  back,  and  there  was  — 
wilderness. 

But  the  place  was  not  all  forest.  The  three  hills 
were  wooded,   also  the  ridges  that  ran  here  and 

[25] 


Old  Concord 

there,  and  much  of  the  land  that  lay  fifteen  feet  or 
more  above  the  river  level.  Yet  Concord's  Great 
Meadows  were  large,  open  spaces,  almost  free  from 
floods  and  fairly  well  drained,  where  (among  the 
sweet  fern  and  straggly  brush)  stood  each  year 
patches  of  maize.  These  were  fertilized  —  five 
herring  to  a  hill  —  with  the  fish  that  came  up  the 
Musketaquid  River  each  year  in  spawning  time. 
The  corn  was  planted  and  tended  and  reaped  by 
the  squaws  that  came  from  the  encampment  under 
the  hill  called  Nashawtuc.  And  the  fields  had 
once  been  seen  by  a  white  man  who  came  with 
Indian  guides,  and  made  marks  in  a  book,  and 
disappeared  in  the  direction  of  the  settlements  on 
the  coast. 

And  then,  late  in  the  fall  of  this  year  that  the 
white  men  called  sixteen  hundred  and  thirty-five, 
out  from  the  fringe  of  woods  came  more  white 
men  on  to  the  great  meadows.  They  had  no  guides, 
which  accounted  for  the  hardships  of  their  journey 
hither,  for  their  torn  clothes,  scratched  legs,  and 
boots  marked  with  the  slime  of  the  swamps ;  but 
they  walked  all  over  the  meadows  with  Tahatta- 
wan  the  Musketaquid  chieftain,  shook  hands  with 
him  on  some  bargain,  and  seemed  pleased.  And 
not  far  from   the   little  brook  which   the   Indians 

[26] 


Retv *"'*"      ^ 

dammed  with  a  fish  weir,  and  which  perhaps  the 
beavers  first  dammed  centuries  before,  where  was  a 
mill  site,  and  a  sunny  hillside  close  by,  these  white 
men  marked  out  plots  of  ground,  and  promising  to 
come  again,  plunged  into  the  forest,  this  time  with 
a  guide  to  show  the  shortest  way  to  the  settlements. 
In  the  spring  they  came  again,  and  more  men 
with  them,  and  their  wives  and  children  and  goods, 
over  the  rough  road  that  had  been  opened  from 
Watertown.  This  was  a  notable  venture  —  that 
men  from  civilized  England  should  settle  here, 
twenty  miles  from  the  coast,  twelve  from  navi- 
gable water,  surrounded  by  savages.  But  the  need 
of  the  day  was  for  farming  land,  and  all  else  was 
forest ;  so  here  came  these  adventurers,  led  by  two 
ministers  and  by  a  soldier  turned  trader,  to  bargain 
with  the  Indians  under  the  great  tree  on  what  was 
some  day  to  be  Concord  Square.  The  white  women 
huddled  together  at  one  side,  their  children  beside 
them.  The  squaws  stood  silent  at  another.  And 
beneath  the  tree  sat  the  chiefs  and  the  Squaw 
Sachem  and  the  medicine  man,  opposite  the  white 
men  who  were  no  whit  less  grave ;  and  they  smoked 
the  peace-pipe  and  discussed  terms,  until  at  last  Mas- 
ter Simon  Willard,  rising  in  his  place,  and  "  poynt- 
ing   to   the   four   quarters   of  the  world,"  declared 

[27] 


Old  Concord 

that  the  white  men  had  bought  three  miles  from  that 
place,  east  and  west  and  south  and  north.  The  red 
men  agreed,  and  wampum  and  hoes  and  hatchets 
were  given ;  and  every  Indian  there  stared  with  ad- 
miration at  the  medicine  man,  who  stalked  about  in  a 
suit  of  clothes,  a  hat  with  a  white  band,  shoes,  stock- 
ings, and  a  great  coat.  But  the  white  men  noted 
that  this  bargain  had  been  made  with  the  best  of 
good  feeling,  and  that  among  their  own  company- 
there  was  very  close  fellowship ;  so  for  these  two 
good  reasons  they  changed  the  name  of  the  place 
from  Musketaquid  to  Concord.  There  was  no 
thought  that  a  war  would  some  day  begin  there ; 
only  the  hope  that  the  peace  of  God  would  dwell  in 
that  place. 

The  first  year  for  the  white  men  was  a  hard  one. 
In  the  side  of  the  sunny  hill  they  made  dugouts  to 
last  them  until  harvest,  while  they  wrestled  with 
the  root-encumbered  soil,  got  out  their  timbers 
from  the  woods,  and  built,  first  of  all,  the  meeting- 
house. The  frail  roofs  leaked,  fare  was  scanty, 
the  summer  heat  was  new  to  them,  the  wolves  got 
all  the  swine,  and  the  only  meat  they  had  was 
bought  from  the  Indians  —  venison  and  "rockoons." 
But  by  winter  their  houses  were  framed  and  boarded 
in,  and  a  little  crop  was  harvested.     Concord  had  in- 

[28] 


Retrospective 

deed  to  cut  its  bread  very  thin  for  a  long  season,  but 
the  beginning  had  been  made. 

Of  all  the  little  company,  our  sympathy  must  go 
out  strongest  to  Peter  Bulkeley,  the  leading  minister. 
Willard,  his  right-hand  man,  was  a  soldier  and  used 
to  hardship.  John  Jones,  his  colleague,  lost  heart 
and  went  away.  But  Bulkeley,  gently  nurtured, 
fought  the  fight  through.  He  was  a  man  of  educa- 
tion;  he  had  stood  well  in  Puritan  circles,  until 
forced  by  Charles  I  to  leave  his  pulpit,  a  martyr 
to  his  opinions.  Moreover,  being  a  man  of  prop- 
erty and  therefore  taxable,  he  was  forbidden  to 
emigrate.  But  he  took  the  risk  and  slipped  away. 
If  here  in  Concord  meadows  he  saw  a  likeness  to 
his  fertile  Bedfordshire  and  its  winding  streams,  the 
resemblance  was  but  slight.  Here  he  dwelt  by  the 
Square  in  a  log  house;  his  land  was  stubborn  and 
unfruitful  at  first;  his  money  brought  him  no  in- 
come. Nay,  he  spent  freely  more  than  four  of  the 
six  thousand  pounds  which  he  brought  to  the  colonies, 
in  the  necessary  outlay  for  those  who  came  with  him 
to  Concord.  Friends  he  had  in  Boston  and  Cam- 
bridge, but  he  might  have  been  leagues  from  them  as 
well  as  miles,  for  all  he  saw  of  them.  He  wrote: 
"I  am  here  shut  up,  and  do  neither  see  nor  hear." 
His  wife  frightened  him  by  a  sickness,  and  anxiously 

[29] 


Old  Concord 

he  watched  over  her  in  the  uncomfortable  attic, 
until  at  last  he  could  report  that  again  she  "  began 
to  come  down  into  the  house."  Besides  all  this,  he 
bore  his  people's  burdens.  The  first  of  Concord's 
many  books  contains  his  own  published  sermons, 
in  which  he  exhorts  his  people  to  holiness,  evidently 
seeing  nothing  else  to  stay  them  in  their  troubles. 

Those  troubles  were  not  slight.  Sheep  could  not 
live  unless  cattle  had  first  been  pastured  on  the 
land,  and  the  cattle  did  very  poorly  on  the  meadow 
grass.  Apparently  there  were  wet  seasons  when 
the  land  was  flooded  and  the  crops  suffered.  The 
people  could  not  maintain  their  two  ministers  (for 
Bulkeley,  no  longer  rich,  needed  a  salary) ;  there 
was  even  talk  of  abandoning  the  enterprise,  and 
the  elders  from  Boston  were  called  in  conference 
on  the  matter.  Finally  there  came  "a  discord  in 
the  church  of  Concord,"  caused  apparently  by 
Bulkeley's  "pressing  a  piece  of  charity"  against 
the  stiff  conscience  of  his  colleague.  So  Jones  led 
away  "the  faint-hearted  souldiers  among  them," 
and  all  we  can  guess  of  the  ins  and  outs  of  the  matter 
is  from  Bulkeley's  statement  that  by  it  he  came: 
"i.  To  know  more  of  God.  2.  To  know  more  of 
himself.     3.  To  know  more  of  men." 

Relieved  of  its  excess  of  ballast,  the  enterprise 

[30] 


Retrospective 

now  showed  promise  of  success.  Minor  troubles 
were  easily  managed,  sometimes  by  the  peremptory 
measures  of  those  days.  Poor  Mr.  Ambrose  Martin 
called  the  church  covenant  "a  human  invention," 
and  was  fined  ten  pounds.  To  secure  the  fine,  the 
officials  took  property  which  sold  for  twenty  pounds  ; 
but  the  offender  could  not  be  persuaded  to  accept 
the  remainder,  even  though  he  came  to  want.  The 
tender  conscience  of  Bulkeley  led  him  to  urge  on 
the  governor  a  remission  of  the  original  fine;  but 
stern  Endicott  refused,  and  "our  poore  brother" 
went  destitute  to  his  grave. 

The  Indians  never  threatened  Concord;  they 
were,  at  least  in  early  times,  rather  to  be  considered 
as  childlike  dependents.  As  they  failed  to  under- 
stand that  they  had  sold  their  fish-weir  with  the 
land,  a  second  bargaining  seems  to  have  been  neces- 
sary, in  order  that  the  white  men  might  be  free  to 
build  their  mill  upon  the  brook.  And  so  the  be- 
ginning of  our  Milldam  was  made.  The  personal 
habits  of  the  Indians  grieved  and  sometimes  vexed 
their  white  brothers,  until  a  sort  of  treaty  was 
drawn  up,  by  which  the  Indians  agreed  to  submit 
themselves  to  fines  and  other  simple  punishments 
for  ordinary  misdemeanors.  But  since  the  occasion 
was  too  good  not  to  improve  for  both  religion  and 

[31] 


Old  Concord 

morality,  the  Indians  were  induced  to  promise  to 
"improve  their  time,"  to  labor  after  "humilitye," 
to  wear  their  hair  "comely  like  the  English,"  to  give 
up  greasing  themselves,  not  to  howl  and  paint  them- 
selves when  mourning,  and  to  knock  before  entering 
an  Englishman's  house. 

Nevertheless,  smile  as  we  may  at  these  simple 
matters,  there  was  a  pathetic  note  in  the  Indians' 
request  that  they  be  not  forced  to  remove  far  from 
their  friends  at  Concord,  but  that  they  be  allowed 
to  remain  near  by,  in  order  to  hear  the  word  of 
God,  and  not  to  forget  to  pray.  So  a  settlement 
was  granted  them  in  Nashoba,  now  Acton,  but  a 
few  miles  away. 

There  was  in  early  days  a  beginning  of  our  Square. 
Soon  after  Bulkeley's  time,  it  became  common 
land.  And  we  may  be  sure,  as  we  look  at  it,  that 
Bulkeley  trod  it,  and  John  Eliot,  the  apostle  to 
the  Indians,  through  whose  aid,  doubtless,  the 
Concord  Indians  were  so  tamed.  And  Winthrop 
and  Dudley,  brothers-in-law,  must  have  come  here, 
for  they  owned  land  just  outside  the  town  and 
gave  their  name  to  the  boundary  stone  in  the 
brook  in  the  east  quarter, —  the  Two  Brothers. 

And  hard  times  passed.  The  shapeless  common, 
the  dam  at  the  mill,  saw  the  empty  houses  filled, 

[32] 


Retrospective 

more  people  at  meeting,  prosperity.  Bulkeley  could 
at  last  know  that  his  great  venture  had  succeeded. 
His  neighbors  could  look  forward  to  a  secure  future. 
Emerson  mirrored  their  minds  when  he  wrote : 

"Bulkeley,  Hunt,  Willard,  Hosmer,  Meriam,  Flint, 
Possessed  the  land  which  rendered  to  their  toil 
Hay,  corn,  roots,  flax,  hemp,  apples,  wool,  and  wood. 
Each  of  these  landlords  walked  amidst  his  farm, 
Saying,  "Tis  mine,  my  children's  and  my  name's. 
How  sweet  the  west  wind  sounds  in  my  own  trees  ! 
How  graceful  climb  those  shadows  on  my  hill ! 
I  fancy  those  pure  waters  and  the  flags 
Know  me,  as  does  my  dog :  we  sympathize.' " 


[33] 


Military  Affairs 


II 

AS  geography  is  the  handmaid  of  strategy  as 
well  as  of  trade,  let  us,  before  we  leave  this 
post  at  the  north  end  of  the  Square,  master  so 
much  of  the  plan  of  Concord  as  is  necessary  for  a 
clear  understanding  of  its  famous  Fight.  Coming 
from  Boston  by  way  of  Lexington,  Lexington  Road 
(closely  bordered  for  a  mile  on  the  right  by  a  steep 
ridge)  leads  into  the  Square  at  its  farther  end. 
From  the  near  left-hand  corner,  Monument  Street 
leads  out  again  to  the  North  Bridge,  less  than  a 
mile  away.  These  two  streets  mark  the  essential 
route  of  the  British;  the  ridge,  which  less  steeply 
borders  Monument  Street  also,  was  a  factor  in  the 
doings  of  the  day.  Out  of  the  Square,  again,  the 
Milldam  leads  to  the  right,  and  by  way  of  Main 
Street  takes  travelers  to  the  South  Bridge.  In 
early  times,  there  were  no  other  bridges  in  the 
town,  and  no  other  streets  led  from  the  Square. 
The  Town  House  (its  site  marked  by  the  present 
memorial  stone  at  the  west  of  the  Square)  Wright's 

[37] 


Old  Concord 

Tavern,  the  Meeting-house,  and  the  brick  mill  at 
the  end  of  the  Milldam,  were  the  chief  buildings. 

For  some  years  previous  to  1775,  trouble  had 
been  brewing  in  Massachusetts.  Boston  had  ex- 
perienced its  Massacre  and  its  Tea-party,  and  was 
filled  with  the  king's  soldiers.  Against  them  the 
spirit  of  resistance  was  growing  in  the  colony.  The 
line  of  cleavage  in  the  people,  dividing  Whig  from 
Tory,  showed  itself  very  plainly  in  Concord.  It 
even  cut  into  families.  Daniel  Bliss,  the  former 
pastor  of  the  town,  had  been  a  stout  old  loyalist; 
but  his  children  took  different  sides.  Phebe,  a 
woman  of  strong  character,  married  her  father's 
successor,  young  William  Emerson,  first  of  the 
name  in  Concord,  but  of  Bulkeley  blood,  and  a 
defender  of  the  rights  of  the  colonies.  Phebe's 
brother  Daniel  took  the  other  side.  A  lawyer,  he 
upheld  the  law;  the  son-in-law  of  a  prominent 
Tory,  he  was  strengthened  by  family  influence. 
His  house  stood  on  Walden  Street;  the  dwelling 
must  have  been  nearly  opposite  the  present  post- 
office,  though  then  there  were  no  buildings  between 
it  and  the  mill-pond.  Bliss  was  one  of  the  justices 
of  the  Court  of  Common  Pleas,  with  the  rest  of 
whom  he  was  forced  to  promise  to  discontinue  its 
sittings.     He  had  even  to  submit  to  being  deprived 

[38] 


Military  Affairs 

of  his  tea,  and  had  to  be  careful  where  he  bought 
any  of  his  supplies ;  for  Concord,  like  other  towns, 
not  only  refused  to  buy  goods  imported  from  Eng- 
land, but  even  threatened  a  boycott  against  all 
who  did  buy  any. 

Bliss  is  well  remembered  for  his  share  in  a  striking 
scene  that  took  place  in  the  old  meeting-house. 
Conventions  were  frequent  in  those  days ;  they 
were  held  in  the  big  church,  and  at  one  of  them 
Bliss  seized  his  chance  to  express  his  opinion,  and 
to  utter  his  warning,  on  the  course  which  the  Whigs 
were  pursuing.  His  address  was  a  good  one,  driven 
home  with  forensic  skill,  wit,  and  biting  sarcasm. 
The  wealth  and  power  of  Britain  made  her  in- 
vincible; the  fringe  of  colonists  along  the  coast 
could  do  nothing  against  her  might;  they  were 
treading  a  dangerous  way,  and  should  turn  back 
before  they  were  crushed.  At  the  end  of  the 
speech,  there  was  such  a  silence  that  Bliss  must 
have  believed  himself  successful.  Then,  since  the 
older  men  did  not  speak,  slowly  there  rose  from  his 
seat  a  young  man  in  homespun,  at  the  sight  of 
whom  the  eyes  of  all  the  Whigs  brightened.  He 
began  slowly,  but  as  he  gained  confidence,  his  halt- 
ing words  began  to  come  as  freely  as  those  of  Bliss. 
His  ideals  were  higher,  his  appeal  more  thrilling. 

[39] 


Old  Concord 

A  Worcester  delegate,  watching  the  frowning  and 
fretting  Bliss,  asked,  "Who  is  that  man  ?" 

"Hosmer,  a  mechanic." 

"A  mechanic  ?  Then  how  comes  he  to  speak 
such  good  English  ?" 

"Because  he  has  an  old  mother  who  sits  in  the 
chimney  corner  and  reads  English  poetry  all  the 
day  long;  and  I  suppose  it  is  'like  mother  like 
son.'  His  influence  over  the  young  men  is  won- 
derful, and  where  he  leads  they  will  be  sure  to 
follow." 

And  follow  they  did.  The  response  to  Hosmer's 
speech  showed  Bliss  that  the  struggle  must  come. 
There  was  left  for  him  only  to  show  that  he  be- 
lieved in  his  own  words. 

This  final  test  came  to  another  Tory  earlier  than 
to  Bliss.  On  the  farm  where  once  dwelt  "Simon 
Willard,  one  of  the  founders  of  Concord,"  lived 
Joseph  Lee,  the  town's  physician.  Everything  is 
now  changed  about  his  place,  even  to  the  very 
name  ;  for  Lee's  Hill  is  now  Nashawtuc,  two  bridges 
make  useless  the  doctor's  ford,  and  many  modern 
residences  dot  his  acres.  Lee  was  a  man  born  for 
opposition  and  hot  water ;  he  had  seceded  from  the 
parish,  forming  with  others  what  was  derisively 
called  the  Black  Horse  Church,  because  it  met  in 

[40] 


Military  Affairs 

the  tavern  of  that  name;  and  when  the  original 
cause  of  quarrel  had  been  removed,  he  made  as 
much  uproar  in  trying  to  return  as  ever  he  had  done 
in  seceding.  Such  a  man  was  likely  to  take  an 
original  path  in  revolutionary  troubles ;  and  he  did 
so. 

There  came  to  town  the  news  that  Gage,  the 
governor  in  Boston,  had  seized  the  provincial  pow- 
der and  cannon,  and  might  shortly  do  —  nobody 
knew  what.  The  occasion  of  reproving  him,  and  at 
the  same  time  of  removing  some  of  the  new  unpopular 
officers,  was  too  good  to  be  lost.  From  all  towns 
the  militia  companies,  some  actually  under  the  be- 
lief that  Boston  had  suffered  a  second  Massacre, 
hurried  toward  Cambridge.  Planning  a  night  march, 
Ephraim  Wood,  one  of  Concord's  most  important 
men,  invited  the  doctor  to  go,  —  perhaps  as  a  test. 

"My  heart  is  with  you,"  quoth  the  doctor,  "but 
I  cannot  go." 

Yet  at  early  darkness  the  doctor  crossed  the 
ford ;  and  when  the  company  returned  from  its 
successful  journey,  it  was  discovered  that  he  had 
been  to  Cambridge  in  advance  of  them.  Sum- 
moned and  questioned  —  was  it  before  one  of 
those  impromptu  meetings  in  the  Square,  to  which 
the   town   was   then   much   given  ?  —  he   admitted 

[41] 


Old  Concord 

that  he  had  given  warning  of  the  coming  of  the 
militia. 

The  sequel  was  the  humiliating  declaration  which 
Lee  publicly  signed.  "When  I  coolly  reflect  on 
my  own  imprudence,  it  fills  my  mind  with  the 
deepest  anxiety.  I  deprecate  the  resentment  of 
my  injured  country,  humbly  confess  my  errors, 
and  implore  the  forgiveness  of  a  generous  and  free 
people,  solemnly  declaring  that  for  the  future  I 
will  never  convey  any  intelligence  to  any  of  the 
court  party,  neither  directly  nor  indirectly,  by 
which  the  designs  of  the  people  may  be  frustrated, 
in  opposing  the  barbarous  policy  of  an  arbitrary, 
wicked,  and  corrupt  administration." 

Concord  meeting-house  became  for  a  while  the 
center  of  interest  for  the  whole  of  Massachusetts. 
Let  us  remember  that  in  those  days  the  old  church 
stood  lengthwise  to  the  road,  without  bell  or  cupola 
or  external  ornament ;  but  that  it  was  roomier 
even  than  at  present,  having  two  galleries  that 
accommodated  all  members  of  the  Provincial  Con- 
gress which,  late  in  1774  and  again  early  in  1775, 
met  here  to  plan  the  rebellion.  Here  the  Congress 
passed  its  resolve  to  stop  the  payment  of  taxes  to 
the  king;  here  it  began  the  treasonable  action  of 
raising  and  equipping  an  army.     And  in  Concord 

[42] 


Military  Affairs 

began  to  accumulate  those  military  stores  which 
the  royal  governor  would  have  to  seize  if  he  wished 
to  cripple  his  disloyal  subjects.  It  was  at  Concord, 
therefore,  that  his  first  blow  must  be  struck. 

Foreseeing  the  great  emergency,  the  province  in- 
creased its  military  strength.  Its  ancient  militia 
comprised  every  able-bodied  man;  but  now  from 
these  were  drawn  new  companies  to  make  a  mobile 
force  of  young  men,  ready  to  spring  to  arms,  and 
to  march  as  far  and  as  swiftly  as  might  be  needed. 
It  was  Concord  which  first  created  their  form  of 
oath,  "to  hold  ourselves  in  readiness  at  a  minute's 
warning  with  arms  and  ammunition."  So  the 
Minutemen  first  came  into  being.  At  worship  or 
at  work,  their  arms  were  always  at  hand. 

The  comic  now  intruded.  Wearing  disguises 
which  no  Yankee  could  fail  to  penetrate,  trudging 
on  foot,  two  British  officers  came  to  spy  out  the 
land.  They  sketched  a  map  of  the  roads,  saw 
what  they  could  of  the  preparations  for  defence, 
and  asked  their  way  to  the  house  of  Daniel  Bliss. 
A  woman  pointed  across  the  Milldam  to  the  house 
that  looked  on  the  pond.  A  very  comfortable 
dinner  they  must  have  had  with  Bliss,  glad  as  they 
were  to  get  out  of  the  public  gaze. 

But   Bliss   can   scarcely  have   been   easy   in   his 

[43] 


Old  Concord 

mind,  knowing  that  his  guests  had  been  marked  to 
his  door.  First  the  woman  who  had  guided  them 
came,  weeping  because  of  her  townsmen's  threats 
against  her;  then  came  a  message  for  Bliss  him- 
self :   he  should  not  leave  the  town  alive  ! 

"What,"  asked  his  guests,  "are  the  Yankees 
ugly?    Will  they  fight  ?" 

Bliss  pointed  out  the  window.  "There  goes 
my  own  brother.  He  will  fight  you  in  blood  up 
to  the  knees." 

"Come  away  with  us,  then,"  urged  the  officers. 
"We  are  armed  and  can  protect  you." 

So  by  Lexington  Road  the  three  stole  out  of  town 
in  the  dusk,  and  Bliss  never  saw  Concord  again. 
For  him,  comedy  had  become  tragedy;  and  for 
the  country,  the  whole  great  drama  at  last  was 
turning  grimly  earnest.  Lexington  Road,  the 
Square,  and  the  Milldam,  were  to  witness  more 
than  this  pathetic  exit. 

Paul  Revere  came  frequently  from  Boston,  bear- 
ing messages  from  Joseph  Warren  to  Hancock  and 
Samuel  Adams  and  the  other  provincial  leaders  in 
the  Congress.  On  the  fifteenth  of  April  Revere 
brought  word  that  the  British  would  move  soon. 
Much  too  slowly  it  was  borne  in  upon  the  guardians 
of  the  stores  that  it  was  foolhardy  to  wait  longer. 

[44] 


Military  Affairs 

But  when  the  word  was  given,  Concord  sprang  to 
tasks  which  had  been  designated  at  least  a  month 
beforehand.  Horses  were  hitched,  carts  trundled 
on  the  highway,  and  at  noon  on  the  eighteenth  of 
April,  powder  and  ball  were  loaded  up  for  their 
journey  to  places  of  greater  safety.  The  "alarm 
company,"  true  to  their  oath,  must  remain  on  the 
spot;  but  the  other  men  were  busily  driving  the 
carts  away. 

The  work  was  too  great  to  be  done  quickly,  but 
it  was  eagerly  pushed.  The  powder  must  first 
have  been  saved,  for  none  whatever  was  captured. 
But  it  must  have  been  plain  that  the  rest  of  the 
stores  —  cannon,  shot,  bullets,  and  food  —  were 
in  danger.  Over  the  roads,  never  too  good,  and 
always  soft  in  spring,  the  heavy  carts  labored. 
The  Square  must  have  been  a  busy  place  till  late 
at  night,  and  peace  came  slowly  to  the  town. 

Then  the  call  of  war  came  early.  Young  Doctor 
Prescott,  who  had  been  visiting  his  sweetheart  in 
Lexington,  and  who  was  returning  in  company 
with  Paul  Revere,  bearing  the  fateful  news  of  the 
coming  of  the  British,  barely  escaped  when  Revere 
was  captured  by  a  patrol  of  English  officers.  By 
a  roundabout  route  he  came  to  Concord  with  the 
alarm,  roused  the  guard  at  the  Court-house,  and 

[45] 


Old  Concord 

told  his  news.  Alarm  guns  were  fired,  and  the  bell 
was  tolled.  It  is  said  that  the  first  man  to  appear 
in  response  was  the  minister,  William  Emerson, 
his  gun  on  his  shoulder.  And  in  a  little  while  the 
whole  of  the  alarm  company  was  there,  parading 
on  the  Square. 

Wright's  Tavern  was  the  focus  of  excitement  for 
many  hours,  the  small,  square,  hip-roofed  building, 
in  those  days  without  its  present  ell.  Such  or- 
ganization as  could  be  maintained  was  centered 
there,  where  the  officers  and  selectmen  were  ac- 
customed to  meet,  and  where  now  it  was  natural 
to  go  for  consultation.  The  work  of  saving  the 
stores  was  continued  as  best  it  could  be,  but  the 
absence  of  most  of  the  teams  made  it  impossible 
to  cart  away  all  of  the  remaining  deposits.  Some 
of  them  were  concealed  near  by,  under  hay  or  brush, 
or  in  the  woods  ;  but  at  the  mill  and  the  malt-house 
the  barrels  remained  unhidden.  One  careful  soul 
saved  the  church  silver  by  throwing  it  into  the  soap- 
barrel  at  the  tavern,  whence  it  emerged  so  black  that 
no  one  but  a  silversmith  could  polish  it. 

The  men  who  had  yesterday  gone  away  with  the 
teams  at  last  began  to  come  back  with  their  mus- 
kets ;  the  Minutemen  from  Lincoln  arrived ;  some 
few  came,  as  individuals,  from  other  towns.     The 

[46] 


The  Wright  Tavern 


Military  Affairs 

commanders  of  this  little  body  marched  them  to 
the  liberty  pole  on  the  hill,  to  wait  there  while  a 
detachment  was  sent  to  reconnoiter.  Down  Lex- 
ington Road  this  company  marched,  past  the  spot 
where  Hoar  had  housed  his  Indians,  past  the  place 
where,  in  imagination,  Hawthorne  put  the  house 
of  Septimius  Felton  on  that  day,  past  the  end  of 
the  winding  ridge  that  flanked  the  highway,  and 
out  upon  the  Great  Meadows  toward  Lexington. 
And  then,  says  private  Amos  Barret,  who  was  of 
the  company,  "we  saw  them  coming."  He  leaves 
us  to  imagine  the  scene  as  viewed  from  Meriam's 
Corner:  the  Minutemen  in  homespun  halting,  the 
British  in  their  scarlet,  gold,  and  flashing  steel 
advancing  upon  them  across  the  level,  sunlit 
meadow. 

The  Minutemen  marched  back,  their  drums  and 
fifes  playing  defiantly  —  "and  also  the  British. 
We  had  grand  musick,"  writes  the  simple  private. 
But  the  matter  was  more  seriously  viewed  by  the 
leaders  under  the  liberty  pole,  to  whom  flying  mes- 
sengers bore  word  of  the  overwhelming  strength 
of  the  regulars.     One  fiery  soul  spoke  out. 

"Let  us  stand  our  ground  !"  cried  the  minister. 
How  they  must  have  loved  him  for  it ! 

But  there  were  strategists  at  the  council,  cuncta- 

[49] 


Old  Concord 

tors,  delayers.  Time  would  conquer  these  invaders 
before  night.  The  regulars  came  in  sight,  the 
grenadiers  on  the  road  below,  the  light  infantry- 
advancing  as  flankers  along  the  ridge,  fiery  eager 
at  the  sight  of  the  liberty  pole  and  its  defenders. 
But  the  best  possible  disposition  had  been  made  of 
the  stores,  the  town  was  practically  empty  of  its 
inhabitants,  and  there  was  nothing  to  fight  for. 
And  so  the  militia  withdrew  across  the  North  Bridge, 
to  wait  reinforcements  on  the  slope  of  Punkatasset 
Hill.  As  they  passed  the  Manse,  the  minister 
dropped  out  of  the  ranks,  staying  to  defend  his  little 
family. 

It  was  the  British  who  now  occupied  the  Square. 
Their  commander,  Smith,  sent  guards  to  the  two 
bridges,  and  a  detachment  across  the  North  Bridge. 
In  the  village,  the  remaining  troops  were  busy, 
ransacking  all  possible  hiding-places  and  destroying 
what  they  could.  They  found  two  cannon  and 
knocked  off  the  trunnions ;  they  rummaged  out  a 
quantity  of  wooden  spoons  and  intrenching  tools 
and  burnt  them  on  the  green ;  at  the  malt-house, 
they  found  the  barrels  of  flour,  broke  some  of  them 
open,  and  rolled  the  rest  into  the  mill-pond. 

But  the  barrels  thus  submerged  were  found, 
when  drawn  out,  to  have  protected  their  contents 

[So] 


Military  Affairs 

very  well.  Bullets  flung  into  the  pond  were,  when 
salvaged,  quite  as  good  as  ever.  The  quantity  of 
flour  stored  near  the  mill  was  saved  by  a  trick. 
Among  them  were  some  bags  and  barrels  of  the 
miller's  own,  and  when  questioned  by  an  officer, 
he  put  his  hand  on  these.  "This  is  my  flour,"  he 
said.  "I  am  a  miller,  sir.  Yonder  stands  my 
mill.  I  get  my  living  by  it.  In  the  winter  I  grind 
a  great  deal  of  grain,  and  get  it  ready  for  market 
in  spring.  This  is  the  flour  of  wheat,  this  is  the 
flour  of  corn,  this  is  the  flour  of  rye;  this,"  and 
again  he  touched  his  own  property,  "is  my  flour; 
this  is  my  wheat;  this  is  my  rye;  this  is  mine." 
The  officer  studied  his  countenance,  and  then,  re- 
marking that  the  miller  seemed  too  simple  to  play 
a  trick,  left  the  barrels  untouched. 

Beyond  the  mill,  and  beyond  the  burying-ground 
on  Main  Street,  stood  Bigelow's  Tavern,  where 
was  stored  a  chest  of  papers  and  money  belonging 
to  the  treasurer  of  the  province.  As  the  soldiers 
were  about  to  search  the  chamber  in  which  it  lay, 
a  maid  remonstrated,  declaring  that  the  room  was 
hers  and  contained  her  property.  Again  the  par- 
tial truth  concealed  a  fact,  and  the  chest  was  left 
untouched. 

On  the  Square,  beside  the  Town  House  whose 

[Si] 


Old  Concord 

site  is  marked  by  a  tablet,  lived  Martha  Moulton, 
"widow  woman,"  seventy-one  years  old,  whom 
the  general  flight  of  neighbors  had  left  alone  with 
an  old  man  of  more  than  eighty.  A  politic  soul  she 
proved  herself,  submissive  to  the  soldiers  who  de- 
manded water,  and  to  Major  Pitcairn  and  the 
other  officers  who  sat  on  her  chairs  on  the  grass, 
directing  their  men.  She  had  even  scraped  a  little 
favor  with  them,  so  as  to  chat,  "when  all  on  a 
sudden  they  had  set  fire  to  the  great  gun  carriages 
close  by  the  house,"  and  she  saw  smoke  rising 
from  the  Town  House,  "higher  than  the  ridge." 
Bravely  she  expostulated  with  them,  would  not  be 
rebuffed  by  sneers,  pointed  out  the  sure  damage 
to  the  row  of  buildings,  and  standing  with  a  pail 
of  water  in  her  hand,  "put  as  much  strength  to 
her  arguments  as  an  unfortunate  widow  could 
think  of,"  and  so  touched  Pitcairn's  heart.  The 
fire  was  extinguished  by  the  soldiers  who  set  it, 
and  for  her  services  Martha  Moulton  was  later 
awarded  the  sum  of  three  pounds  by  a  grateful 
province. 

So  far  as  is  known,  Amos  Wright  stayed  by  the 
tavern  to  which,  though  his  occupancy  was  the 
shortest  in  its  history,  he  gave  his  name.  He  had 
been  a  schoolmaster ;    later  he  was  called  captain : 

[5*] 


Military  Affairs 

but  on  this  day  his  business  was  to  protect  his 
property  by  ready  and  obliging  service  to  its  tem- 
porary possessors.  For  Smith  made  it  his  head- 
quarters, and  from  it  issued  his  orders.  And  when 
from  the  North  Bridge  came  the  report  that  the 
militia  were  gathering  on  the  hill  beyond  in  threat- 
ening numbers,  Smith  may  be  pictured  as  leaving 
the  tavern  to  march  on  foot,  "very  fat,  heavy 
man"  as  he  was,  at  the  head  of  the  reinforcing 
detachment.  Perhaps  he  wanted  the  relief  of  walk- 
ing, after  twenty  miles  of  unaccustomed  riding; 
but  at  any  rate,  so  a  grumbler  among  his  subor- 
dinates recorded  in  his  diary,  "he  stopt  'em  from 
being  time  enough." 

Pitcairn  was  left  in  command  at  the  tavern. 
His  fortune  connected  him  closely  with  American 
history  at  this  period,  for  he  fell  bravely  at  Bunker 
Hill.  "Amiable  and  gallant,"  an  opponent  wrote 
of  him ;  he  was  beloved  by  his  men  and  respected 
by  his  adversaries.  But  he  is  best  known  by  a 
remark  which  he  made  as  he  stood,  it  is  interesting 
to  think,  in  front  of  the  tavern,  with  his  critical 
eye  upon  the  men  who  were  still  at  their  work 
of  burning  the  American  supplies.  Who  reported 
the  remark  ?  No  one  so  likely  as  the  tavern  keeper, 
who  brought  him  the  glass  of  brandy  and  water  — ■ 

[S3] 


Old  Concord 

and  sugar  —  which  the  major  jovially  stirred  with 
his  finger. 

"I  hope  so  to  stir  the  Yankee  blood  this  day." 

Was  it  then  that  he  heard,  from  the  direction  in 
which  Smith  had  disappeared,  the  distant  crash  of 
musketry  ? 

Satisfaction  first,  at  the  short  sullen  roll  of  the 
regular  volley.  These  homespuns  were  again,  as 
at  Lexington,  as  at  Boston  five  years  before,  being 
taught  their  lesson.  But  next  came,  for  the  first 
time,  startling  as  the  noise  of  a  gigantic  watchman's 
rattle  shaken  by  a  warning  hand,  the  sharp  rever- 
beration of  the  scattering  reply. 

What  hasty  orders  shouted  and  reechoed,  what 
snatching  up  of  weapons,  what  hurried  forming  of 
ranks  in  the  Square  ! 

Meanwhile,  the  detachment  sent  to  the  North 
Bridge  had  taken  up  its  several  duties.  Three 
companies  pressed  on  beyond  the  bridge,  and  under 
the  guidance  of  one  of  those  officers  who  had  come 
to  visit  Daniel  Bliss,  sought  the  house  of  Colonel 
James  Barrett,  still  standing  on  Barrett's  Mill 
Road.  Barrett  was  the  commander  of  the  militia, 
a  man  of  sixty-four,  disabled  from  much  marching, 
but  active  on  horseback.  The  stores  were  largely 
in  his  charge,   and  he  had  been  very  busy  in  re- 

[S4l 


Military  Affairs 

moving  them.  On  the  retirement  of  the  militia 
from  the  town,  he  had  hastily  ridden  home,  given 
directions  concerning  stores  to  be  hidden  on  his 
place,  and  had  once  more  departed  to  join  his  men. 
Those  at  the  farm  had  been  working  hard.  The 
bed  of  sage  was  lifted,  cannon  wheels  were  planted 
underneath,  and  the  herbs  replaced.  Other  ma- 
terial was  hidden  under  hay  and  manure.  In  the 
garret  were  flints,  balls,  and  cartridges,  stored  in 
open  barrels,  in  the  tops  of  which,  having  no  time 
for  removal,  the  womenfolk  put  a  few  inches  of 
feathers.  Most  valuable,  however,  were  certain 
cannon.  These  were  hastily  taken  to  the  field,  a 
furrow  plowed,  and  the  guns  laid  in  it;  then  they 
were  concealed  by  turning  another  furrow  over 
them.  This  work  was  finished  while  the  regulars 
were  in  sight,  advancing  on  the  farm. 

Mrs.  Barrett  was  equal  to  the  emergency.  Com- 
posedly she  gave  leave  to  search  the  buildings,  gave 
food  and  water  to  the  men,  refused  to  provide 
spirits  to  a  sergeant.  Thereupon  Captain  Parsons, 
the  commander  of  the  party,  forbade  the  man  to 
drink :  he  needed  to  be  fit  for  duty,  for  there  was 
bloody  work  ahead,  on  account  of  the  men  killed 
at  Lexington.  Mrs.  Barrett  refused  pay  for  her 
provisions,   saying:   "We  are  commanded  to  feed 

[551 


Old  Concord 

our  enemies."  When  they  threw  the  money  in 
her  lap,  she  remarked  :  "This  is  the  price  of  blood." 
The  men  found  some  gun  carriages  and  piled  them 
for  burning,  near  the  barn.  At  this  Mrs.  Barrett 
expostulated,  and  the  material  was  removed  to  a 
safer  place.  Of  her  son  the  captain  demanded 
his  name  and  ordered  him  seized,  to  be  sent  to 
England  for  trial.  "He  is  my  son,"  said  Mrs. 
Barrett,  "and  not  the  master  of  the  house,"  and 
so  he  was  released.  As  the  gun  carriages  were  for 
the  second  time  about  to  be  lighted,  the  noise  of 
firing  was  heard  from  the  bridge,  and  Captain  Par- 
sons called  his  men  together  for  the  retreat. 

In  order  to  understand  what  happened  at  the 
bridge,  we  need  to  remember  that  in  those  days 
the  present  highway  bridge  did  not  exist,  and  that 
the  old  bridge,  now  in  its  cul-de-sac,  carried  the  main 
road.  Though  now  the  approach  is  more  closely 
shaded  by  trees,  the  place  is  otherwise  the  same. 
From  its  bend  the  sluggish  stream  flows  under  the 
simple  structure ;  the  meadows  lie  open  to  the  sun ; 
seldom  are  signs  of  industry  in  view.  There  is  not 
even  the  plash  or  murmur  of  quick  water. 

To  this  abode  of  peace,  then,  came  the  soldiers. 
Captain  Laurie,  holding  the  bridge,  disposed  his 
men  according  to  his  best  skill.     One  company  he 

[56] 


^.,r 


^       —-?*'■• 


The  Old  Elisha  Jones  House  —  The  House  with  the  Bullet  Hole 


Military  Affairs 

posted,  mistakenly,  across  the  river,  where  the 
statue  of  the  Minuteman  now  stands.  Another 
company  he  sent  to  the  top  of  the  ridge  past  which 
he  had  come.  Everything  goes  to  show  that  the 
country  was  then  not  so  wooded  as  to-day,  and 
that  men  thus  posted  could  see  much.  His  third 
company  was,  for  a  time  at  least,  at  the  Elisha 
Jones  house,  which  stands  opposite  the  Manse,  one 
of  the  very  oldest  houses  in  the  town.  In  outline 
it  was  much  the  same  as  to-day,  with  its  two  stories 
and  hip  roof,  and  its  shed  connected  with  the  house. 
The  soldiers  swarmed  in  its  dooryard  and  drank  at 
its  well ;  they  did  not  search  the  building,  nor  did 
they  suspect  that  its  owner  was  in  its  cellar  with  a 
loaded  musket,  ready  to  protect  not  only  his  family, 
but  also  tons  of  the  fish  and  beef  which  the  soldiers 
had  come  from  Boston  to  destroy. 

The  soldiers  appear  also  not  to  have  molested  the 
Manse.  There  the  minister  remained  with  his 
family,  one  of  whom  (that  Mary  Moody  Emerson 
to  whom  the  philosopher  was  later  to  owe  so  much) 
used  to  boast  that  she  was  "in  arms  at  the  Fight." 
But  there  was  no  joking  at  the  time ;  the  minister 
could  have  seen  very  little  good  cheer  in  his  view 
of  the  redcoats  on  two  sides  of  his  house. 

The  militia,  on  leaving  the  town,  had  crossed  the 

[59] 


Old  Concord 

bridge  and  waited  on  Punkatasset  Hill  for  the  rein- 
forcements which  speedily  came.  More  Concord 
men  returned  from  their  journeys  with  the  stores ; 
and  singly  or  in  companies,  men  came  in  from 
Bedford,  Acton,  Westford,  Chelmsford,  and  Carlisle. 
Joseph  Hosmer,  whom  we  have  seen  defeating 
Daniel  Bliss  in  debate,  was  made  adjutant  of  the 
muster.  Growing  more  confident  as  his  strength 
increased,  Colonel  Barrett  ordered  the  provincials 
down  to  the  neighborhood  of  the  house  of  his  major, 
Buttrick.  The  militia  and  Minutemen  formed  at  a 
spot  marked  to-day  by  a  tablet  in  the  wall  of  Liberty 
Street,  whence  the  riflemen  among  them  might  have 
dropped  their  bullets  among  the  guard  at  the  bridge. 
At  this  movement  of  the  provincials,  the  regulars 
were  alarmed.  Captain  Laurie  called  in  his  two 
outposts,  and  the  three  companies  formed  at  the 
head  of  the  bridge,  still  mistakenly  on  the  same 
side  as  the  militia,  without  protection  of  any  sort. 
The  captain  sent  to  Smith  his  summons  for  rein- 
forcements, while  the  Americans  still  lingered  be- 
hind the  breastwork  of  a  wall,  not  ready  to  take 
the  responsibility  of  an  attack.  A  great  responsi- 
bility !  For  they  were  still  subjects  of  the  king, 
bred  in  the  Englishman's  dislike  of  change,  and 
open  to  the  vengeance  of  the  strongest  power  on 

[60] 


Military   Affairs 

earth.  The  news  from  Lexington  had  not  yet 
certainly  reached  them.  And  so  they  hesitated, 
the  higher  officers  consulting  with  some  of  the 
civilians  as  to  what  should  next  be  done. 

It  was  now,  not  long  after  nine  o'clock  of  that 
fine  morning  —  the  sun  still  as  bright  as  when 
prophetic  Samuel  Adams,  at  dawn  in  Lexington, 
had  called  it  glorious ;  the  grass,  in  that  early 
spring,  mid-leg  deep  in  the  field  below  —  it  was  now 
that  Hosmer,  the  adjutant,  saw  large  clouds  of 
smoke  rolling  up  above  the  town.  His  soul  took 
fire ;  he  went  to  the  council  of  his  superiors  and 
demanded,  pointing  to  the  smoke:  "Will  you  let 
them  burn  the  town  down  ?" 

The  captains  immediately  begged  to  be  sent 
against  the  bridge.  Smith,  of  Lincoln,  offered  to 
dislodge  the  British.  Davis,  of  Acton,  said,  "I 
haven't  a  man  that's  afraid  to  go."  The  responsi- 
bility of  the  order  rested  with  Barrett,  the  colonel, 
and  manfully  he  took  it.  He  ordered  Buttrick  to 
lead  his  men  at  the  bridge,  with  the  caution  not  to 
fire  unless  fired  upon.  For  every  provincial  in 
Massachusetts  was  drilled  in  the  precept  that  the 
king's  troops  must  shed  the  first  blood.  The  Acton 
company  took  the  lead  in  columns  of  twos ;  pres- 
ently Captain  Brown's   Concord  company  pressed 

[61] 


Old  Concord 

up  abreast  of  it;  behind  was  the  second  Concord 
company,  and  then  the  remaining  troops,  their 
order  directed  by  the  mounted  colonel.  In  front 
marched  Buttrick,  and  with  him  Lieutenant-colonel 
Robinson  of  Westford,  to  whom  Buttrick  had  of- 
fered the  command,  but  who  preferred  to  march 
as  volunteer.  Thus  they  bore  down  upon  the 
bridge. 

At  the  first  movement  of  the  Americans,  Captain 
Laurie,  perceiving  the  weakness  of  his  position, 
hastily  withdrew  his  men  across  the  bridge,  and 
formed  them  clumsily  once  more,  the  companies 
one  behind  the  other,  "so  that  only  the  front  one 
could  fire."  At  the  captain's  order,  some  of  the 
men  began  to  take  up  the  planks  of  the  bridge,  an 
act  quite  of  a  piece  with  all  that  he  had  done,  since 
he  thus  would  endanger  the  retreat  of  the  detach- 
ment at  Colonel  Barrett's.  Buttrick,  raising  his 
voice,  shouted  to  the  British  to  desist. 

At  this,  two  or  three  shots  were  fired  by  the 
British  into  the  river,  signal  or  alarm  guns,  to 
which  the  Americans  paid  no  attention.  A  shot 
was  fired  at  Buttrick  himself;  it  passed  between 
him  and  Robinson,  and  wounded  two  men  behind. 
Davis,  the  Acton  captain,  stepped  to  one  side  to 
be  clear  of  his  men,  and  prepared  to  fire,  when  im- 

[62] 


Military   Affairs 

mediately  the  British  volley  rang  out.  Davis  fell, 
and  with  him  one  of  his  men.  Some  few  were 
wounded,  the  rest  untouched  by  the  bullets  that 
went  overhead.  Said  Amos  Barrett :  "The  balls 
whistled  well." 

Over  in  the  Manse  the  minister,  his  soul  on  fire, 
had  but  one  dread :  that  the  volley  would  not  be 
returned. 

He  need  not  have  doubted.  Buttrick  sprang 
from  the  ground  as  he  turned  to  the  ranks.  "Fire, 
fellow-soldiers,  for  God's  sake,  fire!"  The  order 
was  doubtless  modified  by  the  company  commanders. 
Says  Barrett :  "  We  were  then  all  ordered  to  fire  that 
could  fire  and  not  kill  our  own  men."  The  minister 
heard  the  response  and  saw  the  result.  Leaving 
two  of  their  privates  dying  on  the  ground,  with  half 
their  officers  wounded,  and  many  of  their  men,  the 
regulars  retreated  in  haste,  around  the  bend  in  the 
road  and  past  the  Elisha  Jones  house. 

Here  Jones,  roused  from  his  concealment  in  the 
cellar,  threw  up  an  upstairs  window  to  fire  on  the 
retreating  redcoats.  But  his  wife  clung  to  him, 
showed  him  the  danger  to  the  family,  and  took 
away  his  gun.  Then  Jones,  in  scornful  triumph, 
showed  himself  at  the  door  of  his  shed,  to  sneer  at 
the  beaten  troops  as  they  crowded  by,  some  bind- 

[63] 


Old  Concord 

ing  up  their  wounds,  some  aiding  their  limping 
comrades.  One  of  the  British,  observing  him,  fired 
hastily  as  he  passed.  The  bullet  passed  through 
the  wall  at  his  right  and  glanced  out  through  the 
rear  into  the  hillside.  The  front  wall  shows  its 
hole  to  this  day. 

The  Americans,  coming  in  pursuit,  saw  the  fugi- 
tives join  Smith's  party.  After  some  hesitation, 
the  regulars  retreated.  Smith  thus  left  Captain 
Parsons  and  his  detachment  to  their  fate.  The 
provincials  could  have  intercepted  them.  But  not 
yet  had  the  rebels  realized  that,  as  has  been  said, 
while  the  men  to  whom  Buttrick  gave  his  order 
were  subjects  of  King  George,  the  men  who  fired 
and  who  pursued  were  citizens  of  another  country. 
Not  yet  did  they  feel  that  this  was  war.  The  three 
companies  were  allowed  to  pass  on  their  hasty  re- 
treat, the  guard  from  the  South  Bridge  came  in, 
and  the  whole  force  of  regulars  was  gathered  in  the 
village. 

Here  they  were  too  strong  for  the  Americans ; 
and  besides,  they  could  burn  the  town.  But  time 
was  still  working  for  the  militia.  Therefore  nothing 
was  done  by  them  while  Smith,  by  futile  marchings 
and  countermarchings,  displayed,  as  the  minister 
wrote  in  his  diary,  "great  fickleness  and  inconstancy 

[64] 


Military  Affairs 

of  mind."  The  British  commander  was  perhaps 
waiting  for  the  reinforcements  for  which  he  had 
sent;  but  at  last,  being  but  too  well  aware  that 
the  country  was  aroused  against  him,  and  that  he 
must  start  soon  if  he  wished  to  reach  Boston  at  all, 
about  noon  he  began  his  retreat. 

The  troops  marched  out  of  the  town  as  they  had 
entered,  by  Lexington  Road.  For  a  mile  this  is 
bordered  by  the  ridge  which  we  have  repeatedly 
noticed ;  and  to  prevent  attack  from  this  vantage 
point,  Smith  sent  his  flankers  along  it.  It  was  on 
this  ridge,  where  Hawthorne  later  wore  his  path, 
that  he  set  the  scene  of  Septimius  Felton's  duel 
with  the  British  officer. 

"While  the  young  man  stood  watching  the  march- 
ing of  the  troops,  he  heard  the  noise  of  rustling 
boughs,  and  the  voices  of  men,  and  soon  under- 
stood that  the  party,  which  he  had  seen  separate 
itself  from  the  main  body  and  ascend  the  hill,  was 
now  marching  along  on  the  hill-top,  the  long  ridge 
which,  with  a  gap  or  two,  extended  as  much  as  a 
mile  from  the  village.  One  of  these  gaps  occurred 
a  little  way  from  where  Septimius  stood.  .  .  .  He 
looked  and  saw  that  the  detachment  of  British  was 
plunging  down  one  side  of  this  gap,  with  intent  to 
ascend  the  other,  so  that  they  would  pass  directly 
over  the  spot  where  he  stood;  a  slight  removal  to 
one  side,  among  the  small  bushes,  would  conceal 
him.     He  stepped  aside  accordingly,  and  from  his 

[65] 


Old  Concord 

concealment,  not  without  drawing  quicker  breaths, 
beheld  the  party  draw  near.  They  were  more  in- 
tent upon  the  space  between  them  and  the  main 
body  than  upon  the  dense  thicket  of  birch-trees, 
pitch-pines,  sumach,  and  dwarf  oaks,  which,  scarcely 
yet  beginning  to  bud  into  leaf,  lay  on  the  other  side, 
and  in  which  Septimius  lurked. 

"[Describe  (says  Hawthorne's  memorandum)  how 
their  faces  affected  him,  passing  so  near;  how  strange 
they  seemed.] 

"They  had  all  passed,  except  an  officer  who 
brought  up  the  rear,  and  who  had  perhaps  been 
attracted  by  some  slight  motion  that  Septimius 
made,  —  some  rustle  in  the  thicket ;  for  he  stopped, 
fixed  his  eyes  piercingly  towards  the  spot  where  he 
stood,  and  levelled  a  light  fusil  which  he  carried. 
'Stand  out,  or  I  shoot,'  said  he. 

"Not  to  avoid  the  shot,  but  because  his  manhood 
felt  a  call  upon  it  not  to  skulk  in  obscurity  from 
an  open  enemy,  Septimius  at  once  stood  forth,  and 
confronted  the  same  handsome  young  officer  with 
whom  those  fierce  words  had  passed  on  account  of  his 
rudeness  to  Rose  Garfield.  Septimius's  fierce  Indian 
blood  stirred  in  him,  and  gave  a  murderous  excitement. 

"'Ah,  it  is  you!'  said  the  young  officer,  with 
a  haughty  smile.  'You  meant,  then,  to  take  up 
with  my  hint  of  shooting  at  me  from  behind  a  hedge. 
This  is  better.  Come,  we  have  in  the  first  place  the 
great  quarrel  between  me,  a  king's  soldier,  and  you 
a  rebel ;  next  our  private  affair,  on  account  of 
yonder  pretty  girl.  Come,  let  us  take  a  shot  on 
either  score  !' 

"The  young  officer  was  so  handsome,  so  beau- 
tiful, in  budding  youth ;   there  was  such  a  free,  gay 

[66] 


Military    Affairs 

petulance  in  his  manner;  there  seemed  so  little  of 
real  evil  in  him;  he  put  himself  on  equal  ground 
with  the  rustic  Septimius  so  generously,  that  the 
latter,  often  so  morbid  and  sullen,  never  felt  a 
greater  kindness  for  fellow-man  than  at  this  moment 
for  this  youth. 

"'I  have  no  enmity  towards  you,'  said  he;  'go 
in  peace.' 

"'No  enmity!'  replied  the  officer.  'Then  why 
were  you  here  with  your  gun  amongst  the  shrub- 
bery ?  But  I  have  a  mind  to  do  my  first  deed  of 
arms  on  you ;  so  give  up  your  weapon,  and  come 
with  me  as  prisoner.' 

"'A  prisoner  !'  cried  Septimius,  that  Indian  fierce- 
ness that  was  in  him  arousing  itself,  and  thrusting 
up  its  malign  head  like  a  snake.  'Never  !  If  you 
would  have  me,  you  must  take  my  dead  body.' 

'"Ah,  well,  you  have  pluck  in  you,  I  see,  only  it 
needs  a  considerable  stirring.  Come,  this  is  a  good 
quarrel  of  ours.  Let  us  fight  it  out.  Stand  where 
you  are,  and  I  will  give  the  word  of  command. 
Now ;   ready,  aim,  fire  ! ' 

"As  the  young  officer  spoke  these  three  last  words, 
in  rapid  succession,  he  and  his  antagonist  brought 
their  firelocks  to  the  shoulder,  aimed  and  fired. 
Septimius  felt,  as  it  were,  the  sting  of  a  gadfly  pass- 
ing across  his  temple  as  the  Englishman's  bullet 
grazed  it ;  but,  to  his  surprise  and  horror  (for  the 
whole  thing  scarcely  seemed  real  to  him),  he  saw 
the  officer  give  a  great  start,  drop  his  fusil,  and 
stagger  against  a  tree,  with  his  hand  to  his  breast." 

Past  the  scene  of  this  imaginary  duel,  past  the 
ridge   itself   and   out   into   the   open,    the   regulars 

[67] 


Old  Concord 

marched.  At  Meriam's  Corner  the  meadow  be- 
gins, and  there  comes  in  the  old  road  from  Bedford. 
As  the  British  left  the  corner,  down  from  the  ridge 
came  marching  the  front  rank  of  the  pursuing 
Americans,  while  the  Bedford  road  was  filled  with 
the  alarm  companies  from  Reading  and  Billerica. 
The  British  rear-guard  halted,  turned,  and  fired  on 
their  pursuers.  The  Americans  responded  so  ac- 
curately that  the  regulars  fled  again.  "When  I 
got  there,"  says  Barrett,  "  a  great  many  lay  dead, 
and  the  road  was  bloody." 

Another  mile,  and  the  British  were  out  of  Concord 
territory ;  but  in  that  mile  they  got  their  taste  of 
that  which  was  to  come.  From  wall  and  thicket, 
from  hill-top  and  wood,  bullets  came  from  unseen 
marksmen.  Here  and  there  were  flitting  figures ; 
but  no  regiment  stopped  the  road,  nor  did  any 
visible  body  of  troops  present  such  a  challenge  as 
the  honor  of  the  regulars  would  allow  them  to  ac- 
cept. Men  dropped  in  the  ranks,  Pitcairn  was 
wounded  and  lost  his  horse,  the  officers  had  to  turn 
their  swords  upon  their  own  weary  and  demoralized 
men  to  keep  them  from  headlong  flight,  and  it  is 
said  that  Smith  would  have  surrendered  before 
reaching  Lexington  could  he  have  seen  any  one  of 
sufficient  rank  to  whom  to  offer  his  sword.     And 

[68] 


The  Monument  of  1836,  and  across  the  Bridge  the  "Minute  Man" 


Military  Affairs 

when  at  last  in  Lexington  the  fleeing  redcoats  met 
the  relieving  column  under  Lord  Percy,  they  flung 
themselves  for  rest  on  the  ground,  their  tongues  (in 
the  words  of  their  own  historian)  hanging  out  of 
their  mouths  like  those  of  dogs  after  a  chase.  A 
little  rest  under  the  protection  of  Percy's  cannon, 
fifteen  miles  more  of  flight  and  chase,  and  the  troops 
reached  their  own  lines,  not  again  to  leave  them 
until  they  were  driven  from  Boston,  eleven  months 
later. 

Such  was,  for  Concord,  the  day  of  the  Concord 
Fight.  The  numbers  engaged  were  small,  the  losses 
on  either  side  were  comparatively  unimportant, 
but  the  act  was  immensely  significant.  The  his- 
tory of  a  continent  had  changed. 

But  as  we  look  at  French's  noble  statue  of  the  fine 
young  Minuteman  leaving  the  plow  in  the  furrow  to 
start  with  his  rifle  for  the  beginning  of  a  great  war, 
we  must  not  allow  ourselves  to  suppose  that  in- 
dividual impulse  guided  or  decided  the  events  of 
the  day.  True,  the  citizen  soldiery  was  from  its 
youth  accustomed  to  the  rifle,  and  the  harrying 
tactics  of  the  pursuit  necessarily  depended  on  the 
skill  of  the  separate  men.  But  even  this  was  guided 
by  method,  and  the  action  of  the  day  had  been 
foreseen  and  planned  long  in  advance.    The  organiza- 

[71] 


Old  Concord 

tion  of  the  Minutemen  was  months  old;  through- 
out the  province  the  regimental  rosters  were 
complete ;  each  company  knew  its  meeting-place  and 
the  shortest  route  to  the  line  of  the  British  march. 
And  at  Concord  the  wise  strategy  of  the  day  was 
decided  by  the  elder  officers ;  there  was  nothing 
haphazard  in  either  the  delay  or  the  attack.  The 
courage  and  initiative  of  the  Minuteman  are  indeed 
worthy  to  be  commemorated  in  bronze;  but  we 
must  remember  that  his  less  striking  qualities,  his 
cool  foresight,  and  his  wise  and  thorough  prepara- 
tion, in  reality  decided  the  day. 

In  the  fight  and  pursuit,  no  Concord  man  was 
killed.  Of  the  town's  four  wounded,  three  were  its 
captains.  Immediately  began  the  long  experience 
of  divided  families,  the  sending  of  supplies,  the  care 
of  the  wounded.  Of  those  who  went  away  to  death, 
the  finest  was  William  Emerson,  who  as  chaplain 
went  to  Ticonderoga,  sickened,  and  died  on  his  way 
home.  At  home  the  two  prominent  men  were 
Ephraim  Wood  and  Joseph  Hosmer,  whose  work  in 
regulating  the  community  and  in  gathering  stores 
for  the  army  was  many  times  worth  their  possible 
services  at  the  front.  During  the  year  of  Boston's 
siege,  Harvard  College  was  located  in  Concord,  the 
recitations  being  held  in  the  Court-house  and  the 

[72] 


Military  Affairs 

church.  Concord  stories  of  that  dreary  war  period 
are  few.  Said  one  wary  individual  after  the  Fight, 
"For  myself  I  think  I  will  be  neutral  these  times." 
His  indignant  neighbors  took  his  name  from  the 
jury  box  and  denied  him  his  rights  as  a  citizen. 
The  estate  of  Daniel  Bliss  was  confiscated.  And 
Joseph  Lee  came  a  second  time  under  the  unfavor- 
able notice  of  his  townsmen.  He  was  ordered  to 
keep  the  bounds  of  his  own  farm,  being  warned  that 
"if  he  should  presume  to  go  beyond  the  bounds  and 
should  be  killed,  his  blood  be  upon  his  own  head." 

The  canny  doctor  stayed  carefully  at  home  and 
managed  to  survive  the  war,  in  spite  of  the  habit  of 
his  neighbors  to  discharge  their  guns  in  the  direction 
of  his  house  whenever  the  spirit  moved  them. 

The  rest  of  Concord's  military  history  is  the  same 
as  that  of  all  the  New  England  towns  which  sent 
their  men  to  later  wars.  Her  glory  must  always 
center  at  the  North  Bridge.  Yet,  curiously  enough, 
for  a  long  time  the  place  was  neglected.  The  high- 
way was  changed,  the  bridge  removed,  interest  in 
the  spot  was  suffered  to  lapse,  and  not  until  1836 
was  a  memorial  set  on  the  spot  where  the  British 
had  stood  :  the  weathered  granite  monument  which, 
impressive  in  its  plainness,  bears  its  proud  inscrip- 
tion commemorating  the  first  forcible  resistance  to 

[73} 


Old  Concord 

British  aggression.  By  the  wall  lie  buried  the  two 
British  privates  killed  in  the  Fight,  over  whom  for 
more  than  a  century  and  a  quarter  there  was  no 
other  memorial' than  the  words  "Grave  of  British 
Soldiers"  carved  on  an  unfinished  slab.  The 
present  slate  tablet,  with  the  verses  from  James 
Russell  Lowell's  fine  poem,  was  placed  in  position 
only  recently.  In  1875,  tne  centennial  of  the  Fight, 
the  bridge  was  rebuilt,  and  on  the  farther  bank, 
where  the  militia  had  stood,  was  erected  Daniel 
Chester  French's  noble  Minuteman.  But  the 
monuments  subdue  themselves  to  the  landscape. 
The  rustic  surroundings  of  the  bridge  shade  and 
soften  bronze  figure  and  granite  shaft;  only  in  the 
spring  floods  does  the  river  change  its  placid  mood ; 
and  the  visitor  to  the  scene  of  Concord  Fight,  the 
spot  where  America  altered  her  destiny,  is  tempted 
to  muse  upon  a  scene  of  peace  rather  than  to  kindle 
his  spirit  in  memory  of  war. 


[74] 


?*may^      \\ffi]! 


Graves  of  British  Soldiers 


Chiefly  Literary 


Ill 


TO  fit  Concord's  history  with  her  geography, 
let  us  trace  once  more  the  lines  of  her  streets, 
in  order  to  point  out  the  buildings  of  chief  interest. 
Radiating,  as  the  streets  do,  irregularly  from  the 
Square,  they  make  it  difficult  for  the  visitor  to  re- 
duce them  to  a  system,  or  even  for  Concord  resi- 
dents to  tell,  offhand,  the  points  of  the  compass. 
It  is  therefore  better,  at  the  opening  of  our  chapter, 
to  explain  at  once  the  general  plan  of  the  town, 
more  carefully  than  was  needed  for  the  story  of  the 
Fight,  yet  simplified  from  the  intricacies  of  modern 
Concord.  With  this  in  mind,  Concord's  literary 
history  can  be  more  clearly  followed.  So  again  let 
us  begin  at  our  north  end  of  the  Square. 

At  the  left  hand,  by  the  Court-house,  we  have 
already  noted  the  beginning  of  Monument  Street, 
which  for  long  was  the  only  road  to  towns  lying  to 
the  north.  (Lowell  Road,  starting  at  our  right,  is 
a  short  cut,  generations  younger.)  Monument 
Street  curves  away  over  a  gentle  rise;    it  borders 

[79] 


Old  Concord 

fertile  meadows,  so  here  lay  some  of  the  earliest 
farms.  And  here,  where  the  old  road  took  a  sharp 
turn  to  the  right,  to  meet  the  river,  two  of  the  an- 
cient houses  face  each  other,  —  the  Manse  among 
its  fields,  and  the  Elisha  Jones  house  at  the  foot  of 
the  ridge.  Between  them  the  modern  highway  runs 
directly  onward  to  the  later  bridge. 

Again  from  the  left  hand  of  the  Square,  between 
the  Town  Hall  and  the  Catholic  church,  starts  Bed- 
ford Street,  not  old,  but  much  traveled  by  the 
tourist  on  his  way  to  Sleepy  Hollow  Cemetery. 
Immediately  behind  the  Town  Hall  is  the  yellow 
house  in  which  Elizabeth  Alcott  died.  A  short 
stretch  of  Bedford  Street,  up  a  gentle  rise,  leads 
to  the  gate  of  the  oldest  portion  of  the  cemetery. 
Or  following  the  curve  of  Bedford  Street  a  couple 
of  hundred  yards  farther,  one  comes  to  the  gate 
that  leads  to  Sleepy  Hollow  itself. 

At  the  end  of  the  Square,  we  have  seen  the  be- 
ginning of  Lexington  Road,  with  Wright's  Tavern 
and  the  Meeting-house  at  its  right.  These  two 
buildings  are  of  Revolutionary  rather  than  of  mod- 
ern interest;  unfortunately  the  handsome  church 
is  only  a  reproduction  of  the  old  building  burned  in 
1900.  Opposite  them  stands  the  picturesque  old 
stucco  dwelling  now  appropriately  fitted  up  as  the 

[80] 


The  Old  Chatter  House  of  the  D.  A.  R. 


Chiefly   Literary 

chapter  house  of  the  Daughters  of  the  American 
Revolution.  The  wide  street  stretches  on,  past 
the  plain  old  house  that  now  contains  the  collection 
of  the  Antiquarian  Society,  to  the  turn  where  still 
stands  the  Heywood  house.  Round  this  turn  and 
past  this  house  swept,  so  many  years  ago,  the  flash- 
ing battalions  of  King  George,  coming  on  their 
fruitless  errand.  As  we  go  past  this  Heywood 
corner  there  opens  up,  across  a  gently  sloping  field 
to  the  right,  the  view  of  a  white  house  behind  a  line 
of  lofty  pines  and  chestnuts.  It  stands  near  the 
road  behind  another  screen  of  trees ;  its  plain  dig- 
nity and  refinement  seize  the  attention  and  stir 
imagination.  This  is  the  Emerson  house,  sheltered 
yet  approachable,  pleasing  with  its  fine  background 
of  fertile  meadow  fringed  with  distant  trees. 

Lexington  Road  winds  gently  on,  over  a  little 
rise  where  another  fine  old  house  stands  below  the 
ridge  which,  —  higher  or  lower,  but  always  close  at 
hand,  —  borders  the  highway  at  the  left.  Beyond 
this  Moore  house,  the  road  dips  and  sweeps  a  little 
to  the  left ;  and  here  in  a  bay,  as  it  were,  of  the  high- 
way, and  in  a  hollow  made  by  a  little  recession  of 
the  hill,  stands  a  brown  house  behind  two  great 
elms,  a  large  house,  homelike  although  old-fash- 
ioned, hospitable  even  if  unoccupied.     This  is  the 

[83] 


Old  Concord 

"Orchard  House"  of  the  Alcotts,  now  a  museum 
to  their  memory.  The  ridge  rises,  the  trees  de- 
scend and  gather  thickly,  some  even  stand  close 
to  the  road  as  if  to  hide  a  house  that  stands  crowded 
between  it  and  the  hill.  It  is  Hawthorne's  "  Way- 
side," which  the  wood  seems  almost  to  draw  into 
its  dark  depths.  The  effect  is  carefully  preserved 
by  "Margaret  Sidney"  (Mrs.  Daniel  Lothrop),  the 
present  owner  of  the  property.  But  the  little 
cottage  close  beyond  rejects  the  spell,  its  white 
cosiness  defying  gloom.  The  tablet  in  front  of  the 
enclosed  trellis  tells  that  here  was  bred  the  Concord 
grape.  On  winds  the  road  below  the  ridge,  until, 
a  mile  and  a  half  from  the  village,  the  hill  abruptly 
stops.  Here  the  Great  Meadows  stretch  into  the 
distance,  the  road  strikes  out  across  their  sunny 
width,  and  a  tablet  in  the  wall  reminds  us  that 
here,  at  Meriam's  Corner,  was  the  field  of  a  bloody 
encounter. 

Returning  to  the  Square,  we  take  the  fourth  street, 
the  Milldam.  At  the  end  of  its  short  length,  Walden 
Street  branches  abruptly  to  the  left.  Speedily  quit- 
ting the  clustered  buildings  of  the  town,  this  street 
leads  across  a  mile  of  Concord's  level  meadows  until 
it  begins  to  climb  a  wooded  slope.  The  ascent  is 
Brister's    Hill,    named    for    the    bygone    freedman 

[84] 


Chiefly   Literary 

whose  cabin  and  spring  near  the  foot  of  the  hill 
Thoreau  described.  In  the  woods  to  the  left  lies 
"Fairyland"  with  its  pond,  beloved  in  Concord 
for  its  natural  beauty  and  its  earliest  skating. 
Members  of  the  "Walden  Pond  Association"  (those 
members  of  the  literary  circle  of  fifty  years  ago 
whose  Sunday  walks  took  them  to  nature  rather 
than  to  church)  knew  "Fairyland"  well.  To  the 
right  of  the  road  lie  Walden  woods,  and  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  farther  along  the  road,  after  reaching  the 
top  of  the  rise,  the  view  of  the  pond  itself  opens 
through  the  trees.  Walden  lies  in  a  deep  basin, 
wooded,  irregular,  very  pleasing.  It  has  no  inlet 
and  no  outlet ;  it  is  often  (a  natural  curiosity) 
higher  in  summer  than  in  spring.  Except  for  the 
ancient  settlement  whose  decay  Thoreau  chronicles, 
and  a  deserted  picnic  ground,  only  the  naturalist 
himself  has  built  on  Walden's  shores,  and  even  his 
cabin  has  gone.  Bathers  come  sometimes  to  Wal- 
den, or  solitary  fishermen;  but  mostly  its  expanse 
is  silent  and  deserted.  To  reach  the  cairn  that 
shows  the  site  of  Thoreau's  cabin,  the  visitor,  after 
climbing  Brister's  Hill,  should  take  the  first  road 
to  the  left,  and  turn  first  to  the  left  and  then  to  the 
right.  He  will  find  himself  by  the  shore  of  Thoreau's 
cove,  with  the  cairn  above  him  in  its  little  hollow. 

[85] 


Old  Concord 

From  the  point  where  Walden  Street  began, 
Main  Street  continues  the  line  of  the  Milldam. 
The  house  beyond  the  bank  building,  setting  back 
from  the  street,  tradition  claims  to  have  been  a 
blockhouse;  certainly  the  thick  walls  of  the  original 
structure  were  once  suitable  for  defence.  Next  lies 
an  old  burying-ground,  perhaps  as  ancient  as  the 
one  upon  the  hill.  At  the  fork  where  Sudbury 
Road  branches  to  the  left,  stands  the  Public  Library, 
a  brick  building  of  the  Gothic  type,  soon  to  be  re- 
modeled. Opposite,  on  Main  Street,  begins  the 
series  of  buildings  connected  with  the  Hoar  family, 
so  important  in  Concord.  And  on  the  left  of  the 
street,  the  third  house  beyond  Belknap,  stands  the 
yellow  house  which  Thoreau  rebuilt  with  his  father, 
where  he  spent  his  last  years,  and  where  the  two 
famous  Alcotts,  father  and  daughter,  lived  in  the 
period  of  their  own  decline.  Following  Main  Street 
farther,  Thoreau  Street  and  Nashawtuc  Road  meet 
at  the  next  corner ;  then  Elm  Street  branches  off, 
and  leading  to  the  river  nearly  a  mile  from  the 
Square,  leads  also  to  the  house  inhabited  by  Frank 
B.  Sanborn,  standing  on  the  right  bank.  Main 
Street  itself  crosses  the  river  by  the  South  Bridge, 
passes  under  the  railroad  track,  and  shows  beyond 
(the  second  house  on  the  right)  the  Alcott  "Cot- 

[86] 


TA^  Thoreau-Alcott  House 


Chiefly   Literary 

tage."  In  Little  Women,  this  is  described  as  Meg's 
"Dovecote";  but  in  fact  none  of  the  Alcotts  lived 
in  it  except  at  their  earliest  visit  to  Concord. 

Such,  following  each  road  to  its  farthest  important 
landmark,  is  the  plan  of  literary  Concord.  If  the 
visitor  mentally  will  reduce  the  map  of  the  town  to 
these  few  elements,  he  will  be  able  to  follow  easily 
the  remainder  of  our  story. 

The  Old  Manse  comes  nearest  to  connecting 
Concord's  military  and  literary  annals.  For  while 
it  was  built  by  the  martial  minister,  and  while  from 
its  windows  was  seen  the  flash  of  the  guns  at  the 
bridge,  it  is  also  closely  linked  with  the  names  of 
Concord  writers.  Its  aspect  would  not  prepare 
one  for  its  distinction.  Well  withdrawn  from  the 
road,  with  its  modest  gambrel  roof,  its  weather- 
beaten  clapboards,  its  partial  screen  of  trees  and 
shrubs,  the  gray  house,  as  if  in  melancholy  brooding 
over  its  past,  seems  to  retire  from  the  wayfarer's 
gaze.  It  sets  low;  there  are  no  wide  lawns  or 
ornamental  planting  to  challenge  attention :  the 
surroundings  of  the  venerable  building  still  recall 
the  time  when  its  fields  maintained  its  owners. 
And  that  is  right,  for  here,  if  anywhere,  have  been 
plain  living  and  high  thinking. 

Built  in  1765,  the  Manse  after  eleven  years  passed 

[89] 


Old  Concord 

to  the  ownership  of  William  Emerson's  widow,  who 
after  two  more  years  married  his  successor.  For 
sixty-three  years  Ezra  Ripley  ruled,  as  still  in  his 
days  a  minister  could  do,  over  a  respectful  parish. 
Simple,  downright,  a  believer  in  his  calling  and 
himself,  even  in  his  oddities  he  typified  the  ancient 
school  of  which  he  was  almost  the  last  example. 
Openly  from  the  pulpit,  or  privately  to  the  ear  of 
his  parishioners,  he  spoke  with  the  authority  of 
his  office,  guided  by  a  knowledge  that  did  not  come 
of  books,  and  a  kindness  of  heart  that  always  dis- 
tinguished him.  .Not  experienced  in  the  ways  of 
the  outer  world,  he  could  be  deceived  by  any  travel- 
ing swindler;  but  in  the  difficulties  and  even  the 
etiquette  of  parochial  life,  no  one  had  a  clearer  eye 
or  surer  speech.  When  after  a  return  from  a  prison 
term  a  Concord  man  made  a  social  call,  Doctor 
Ripley  received  him  kindly;  but  when  a  fellow 
minister  appeared  Doctor  Ripley  said  to  the  first 
comer:  "Mr.  M.,  my  brother  and  colleague  has 
come  to  take  tea  with  me.  I  regret  very  much  the 
causes  (which  you  know  very  well)  which  make  it 
impossible  for  me  to  ask  you  to  stay  and  break 
bread  with  us." 

When  the  highway  was  changed,  and  the  old  North 
Bridge  removed,  the  abandoned  road  became  a  field 

[90] 


Chiefly   Literary 

belonging  to  the  Manse.  With  this  field  we  may  as- 
sociate two  stories  of  the  good  old  doctor.  He  took 
an  innocent  pride  in  his  possession  of  the  famous 
ground,  and  it  was  his  pleasure  to  have  his  hired 
man  ask  in  the  presence  of  guests  into  what  field 
he  would  have  the  cow  turned.  "Into  the  battle- 
field," would  be  the  reply,  always  effective  in  bring- 
ing conversation  to  the  favorite  subject.  And  it 
was  perhaps  in  this  very  field  that  Emerson,  haying 
with  the  old  gentleman,  saw  his  pleading,  almost 
reproachful  glances  at  the  approaching  thunderstorm. 

"He  raked  very  fast,  then  looked  at  the  cloud, 
and  said,  'We  are  in  the  Lord's  hand;  mind  your 
rake,  George!  We  are  in  the  Lord's  hand';  and 
seemed  to  say,  'You  know  me,  this  field  is  mine 
—  Dr.  Ripley's,  thine  own  servant !'" 

The  old  clergyman  gave  back  the  ancient  road- 
way to  the  town  for  the  dedication  of  the  monument 
of  1836,  the  occasion  for  which  Emerson  wrote  his 
beautiful  hymn,  one  verse  of  which  stands  engraved 
on  the  base  of  the  Minuteman  statue  of  1875. 

Plain  speech  accompanied  Doctor  Ripley's  tales 
of  the  parish,  which  no  man  knew  better  than  he. 
"I  remember,  when  a  boy,"  says  Emerson,  "driving 
about  Concord  with  him,  and  in  passing  each  house 
he  told  the  story  of  the  family  that  lived  in  it ;   and 

[91] 


Old  Concord 

especially  he  gave  me  anecdotes  about  the  nine 
church  members  who  had  made  a  division  in  the 
church  in  the  time  of  his  predecessor,  and  showed 
me  how  every  one  of  the  nine  had  come  to  a  bad 
fortune  or  a  bad  end."  At  a  certain  funeral  he 
spoke  fearlessly  to  the  inheritor  of  the  family  re- 
sponsibilities, a  man  whose  temptations  sometimes 
overcame  him.  "There  is  no  man  of  this  large 
family  left  but  you ;  and  it  rests  with  you  to  bear 
up  the  good  name  and  usefulness  of  your  ancestors. 
If  you  fail  —  Ichabod,  the  glory  is  departed  !  Let 
us  pray."  Of  sot  or  spendthrift,  of  any  one  in 
whose  conduct  there  was  a  flaw,  the  doctor  never 
hesitated  to  demand  an  explanation  in  order  to  cure 
the  fault. 

In  his  little  study,  square,  wainscoted,  with  the 
beams  showing,  he  must  have  written  thousands 
of  sermons  —  "it  is  awful,"  says  Hawthorne,  "to 
reflect  how  many."  The  Manse  ghost  is  a  fiction 
of  Hawthorne's,  who  pretended  that  he  heard  it 
sighing,  or  turning  over  sermons.  "Once,  while 
Hilliard  and  other  friends  sat  talking  with  us  in  the 
twilight,  there  came  a  rustling  noise  as  of  a  min- 
ister's silk  gown,  sweeping  through  the  very  midst 
of  the  company  so  closely  as  almost  to  brush  against 
the  chairs." 

[92] 


Chiefly   Literary 

To  the  Manse  came  the  young  Emersons  to  visit 
with  their  step-grandfather.  And  it  may  have 
been  at  the  door  of  the  house  that  the  old  minister 
said  to  the  young  Ralph  Waldo,  on  parting  after  a 
bereavement  which  had  severed  the  last  blood- 
relationship  between  them:  "I  wish  you  and  your 
brothers  to  come  to  this  house  as  you  always  have 
done.  You  will  not  like  to  be  excluded  ;  I  shall  not 
like  to  be  neglected." 

Consequently  it  was  to  the  Manse  that  Emerson 
turned  his  steps  after  he  had  himself  withdrawn 
from  the  ministry  and  was  following  his  new  for- 
tunes. "Hail,"  he  wrote  here,  "to  the  quiet  fields 
of  my  fathers."  Here  he  lived  ;  and  here  he  wrote 
the  first  of  his  great  books,  Nature,  Even  after 
he  had  left  the  Manse  for  a  dwelling  of  his  own, 
and  after  Doctor  Ripley's  death,  he  was  still  a  visitor 
at  the  old  house,  where  he  was  drawn  by  the  enigma 
of  Hawthorne's  personality. 

For  Hawthorne,  not  yet  famous,  had  rented  the 
Manse  not  many  months  after  the  decease  of  the 
old  clergyman.  Apparently  it  attracted  him  from 
the  first,  by  its  individuality  and  seclusion.  He 
describes  with  gusto  the  antique  character  of  its 
interior  and  furnishings,  and  feels  secure,  in  its 
privacy,  against  the  passing  stranger  who  from  the 

[93] 


Old  Concord 

road  could  thrust  his  head  into  other  domestic 
circles.  Doubtless  Hawthorne  was  attracted  by 
the  "most  delightful  little  nook  of  a  study"  in  the 
rear  of  the  house,  facing  west  and  north  on  the 
orchard  and  the  river,  its  window-panes  cracked 
(tradition  said  by  the  volleys  at  the  Fight),  and  its 
walls  blackened  by  the  smoke  of  generations.  Yet 
the  transformation  from  smoke  and  old  woodwork 
to  fresh  paint  and  wall-paper  delighted  him.  In 
July,  1842,  he  married,  and  <almost  immediately 
brought  his  bride  to  the  Manse. 

The  seclusion  which  he  valued  at  first  sight,  he 
enjoyed  through  three  years  at  the  old  house.  Yet 
it  was  a  seclusion  into  which  the  modern  may  pry. 
In  the  preface  to  the  Mosses,  and  in  the  published 
Hawthorne  letters  and  journals,  we  get  a  closer 
glimpse  of  his  household  than  we  can  elsewhere  get 
of  most  others.  The  character  of  bothlthe  house 
and  the  occupants  are  revealed  in  this  intimate 
writing.  The  cold  of  the  winters  (when  the  steam 
from  the  wash-tub  froze  on  the  servant's  hair),  the 
beauty  of  the  summers,  the  joy  in  nature,  and  the 
more  than  joy  in  each  other  —  these  are  shown  in 
diary  and  letter.  Morbid,  we  may  think,  was 
Hawthorne's  shrinking  from  meeting  with  visitors. 
But  this  seems  almost  an  essential  part  of  his  nature. 

[94] 


The  Old  Manse 


Chiefly   Literary 

Hawthorne  was  his  own  workman,  split  the  wood 
and  shoveled  the  snow,  and  even,  in  emergencies, 
boiled  the  potatoes  "with  the  air  and  port  of  a 
monarch."  Whatever  he  did,  his  wife  admired 
him  for  it,  held  him  in  reverence,  would  not  tres- 
pass on  his  time.  She  had  a  pretty  sense  of  guilt 
when  the  beauty  of  the  sun  after  a  shower  made 
her  call  him  to  the  window.  Idealist  as  she  was 
(indignant,  for  example,  with  the  doctor  for  calling 
her  child  "red-headed"),  with  her  many  minute 
touches  she  draws  a  very  fine  picture  of  her  manly 
husband,  not  afraid  of  servile  duties,  struggling  with 
his  art,  waiting  the  slow  payment  for  stories  already 
sold  and  printed,  fretting  at  debt,  and  yet  jesting, 
as  he  watched  her  mending  his  old  dressing-gown, 
that  he  was  the  man  with  the  largest  rents  in  the 
country. 

But  even  though  Hawthorne  loved  solitude,  the 
Manse  was  no  hermitage.  By  persistent  kindness 
new  neighbors  of  the  occupants  made  themselves 
welcome  there.  Emerson  came  often.  So  many 
around  him  were  mere  echoes  of  himself,  that  it 
refreshed  and  delighted  him  to  find  a  man  of  such 
individuality  as  Hawthorne.  First  of  all  he  noted 
Hawthorne's  striking  dignity :  his  aspect  was  regal, 
even  when  he  handed  the  bread  at  table.     And  then 

[97] 


Old  Concord 

his  reticence  charmed  the  philosopher,  long  ac- 
customed to  men  of  ready  speech,  so  that  we  see 
Emerson  changed  from  his  own  oracular  attitude. 

"Mr.  Emerson  delights  in  him;  he  talks  to  him 
all  the  time,  and  Mr.  Hawthorne  looks  answers. 
He  seems  to  fascinate  Mr.  Emerson.  Whenever  he 
comes  to  see  him,  he  takes  him  away,  so  that  no 
one  may  interrupt  him  in  his  close  and  dead-set 
attack  upon  his  ear."  So  different  were  the  natures 
of  the  two  men  that  neither  truly  appreciated  the 
achievements  of  the  other;  yet  there  was  between 
them  from  the  first  a  strong  bond  of  mutual  interest 
and  respect. 

"It  was  good,"  wrote  Hawthorne,  "to  meet  him 
in  the  woodpaths,  or  sometimes  in  our  avenue,  with 
that  pure  intellectual  gleam  diffused  about  his 
presence  like  the  garment  of  a  shining  one ;  and 
he  so  quiet,  so  simple,  so  without  pretension,  en- 
countering each  man  alive  as  if  he  expected  to  re- 
ceive more  than  he  could  impart."  The  picture  is 
unforgettable. 

Another  visitor  to  the  Manse  at  this  time  was 
Thoreau.  Here  were  still  stronger  differences  than 
before,  for  the  contemplativeness  of  Thoreau,  as 
real  as  that  of  either  of  his  townsmen,  was,  as  it 
were,  active,  busy,  and  inquiring.     His  robustness 

[98] 


Chiefly   Literary 

kept  him  moving,  and  he  came  to  the  Manse  not  so 
much  to  visit  Hawthorne  as  to  tempt  him  out  upon 
the  river,  where  according  to  season  they  paddled 
or  skated,  or  rode  the  great  ice-cakes  in  their  slug- 
gish way  down-stream.  Hawthorne  found  in  him 
an  honest  and  agreeable  ugliness  of  countenance, 
and  a  wild,  original  nature.  Mrs.  Hawthorne  pic- 
tures the  contrast  between  her  husband  and  his 
two  friends  when  skating  on  the  river  below  the 
Manse,  Emerson  unskilled,  Thoreau  "figuring 
dithyrambic  dances  and  Bacchic  leaps",  and  Haw- 
thorne "like  a  self-impelled  Greek  statue,  stately 
and  grave."  The  Hawthorne  music-box  lured 
Thoreau ;  he  delighted  in  it.  The  romancer  pur- 
chased Thoreau's  boat,  and  as  if  in  mockery  of  the 
stream  by  which  (he  says)  he  lived  for  weeks  before 
discovering  which  way  it  flowed,  re-christened  the 
boat  the  Pond-Lily.  And  yet  one  cannot  find  that 
the  bond  between  the  two  men  grew  very  close,  in 
spite  of  their  journeyings.  Thoreau  was  too  strenu- 
ous and  abrupt  for  Hawthorne's  more  leisurely 
nature. 

It  was  with  Ellery  Channing,  —  poet  and  nature- 
lover,  more  of  a  hermit  than  any  of  these  friends, 
because  both  less  able  and  less  willing  to  express  him- 
self, —  it  was  with  Channing  that  Hawthorne  took  his 

[99] 


Old  Concord 

greatest  pleasure  out  of  doors.  And  if  Thoreau  has 
revealed  to  us  the  spirit  of  Walden,  Hawthorne  more 
than  any  one  else  has  written  most  intimately  of  the 
river,  in  his  account  of  these  excursions  with  Channing. 

"Strange  and  happy  days  were  those  when  we 
cast  aside  all  irksome  forms  and  straight-laced 
habitudes,  and  delivered  ourselves  up  to  the  free 
air,  to  live  like  Indians  or  any  less  conventional 
race  during  the  bright  semi-circle  of  the  sun.  Row- 
ing our  boat  against  the  current,  between  wide 
meadows,  we  turned  aside  into  the  Assabeth.  A 
more  lovely  stream  than  this,  for  a  mile  above  its 
junction  with  the  Concord,  has  never  flowed  on 
earth,  —  nowhere,  indeed,  except  to  lave  the  in- 
terior of  a  poet's  imagination.  It  is  sheltered  from 
the  breeze  by  woods  and  a  hillside ;  so  that  else- 
where there  might  be  a  hurricane,  and  here  scarcely 
a  ripple  across  the  shaded  water.  The  current 
lingers  along  so  gently  that  the  mere  force  of  the 
boatman's  will  seems  sufficient  to  propel  his  craft 
against  it.  .  .  .  At  one  point  there  is  a  lofty  bank, 
on  the  slope  of  which  grow  some  hemlocks,  declining 
across  the  stream  with  arms  outstretched,  as  if 
resolute  to  take  the  plunge.  In  other  places  the 
banks  are  almost  level  with  the  water ;  so  that 
the  quiet  congregation  of  trees  set  their  feet  in  the 
flood,  and  are  fringed  with  foliage  down  to  the 
surface.  .  .  . 

"So  amid  sunshine  and  shadow,  rustling  leaves 
and  sighing  waters,  up  gushed  our  talk  like  the 
babble  of  a  fountain.  The  evanescent  spray  was 
Ellery's ;   and  his,  too,  the  lumps  of  golden  thought 

[  ioo] 


Chiefly   Literary 

that  lay  glimmering  in  the  fountain's  bed.  .  .  . 
But  the  chief  profit  of  those  wild  days  to  him  and 
me  lay,  not  in  any  angular  or  rounded  truth,  which 
we  dug  out  of  the  shapeless  mass  of  problematical 
stuff,  but  in  the  freedom  which  we  thereby  won 
from  all  custom  and  conventionalism  and  fettering 
influences  of  man  on  man.  We  were  so  free  to-day 
that  it  was  impossible  to  be  slaves  again  to-morrow. 
When  we  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  house  or  trod 
the  thronged  pavements  of  a  city,  still  the  leaves  of 
the  trees  that  overhung  the  Assabeth  were  whisper- 
ing to  us,  'Be  free  !  Be  free  !'  Therefore  along 
that  shady  river  bank  there  are  spots,  marked  with 
a  heap  of  ashes  and  half  consumed  brands,  only 
less  sacred  in  my  memory  than  the  hearth  of  a 
household  fire." 

The  hemlocks  which  Hawthorne  here  describes 
are  still  a  feature  of  the  river.  They  lie  on  the 
Assabet,  only  a  little  way  above  Egg  Rock,  the  jut- 
ting ledge  which  marks  the  meeting  of  this  stream 
with  the  Sudbury  to  make  the  Concord  River. 
Near  here  the  ancient  Indian  encampment  stood. 
The  waters  of  these  rivers  are  now  discolored  by 
the  waste  from  mills  nearer  to  their  sources ;  but 
the  banks  are  just  as  lovely,  and  it  requires  but 
little  imagination  to  picture  the  old  "owners  of 
Musketaquid"  lolling  under  the  hoary  hemlocks, 
or  fishing  in  their  shade.  Under  their  many  bridges 
the  rivers  glide  as  sleepily  as  when  Hawthorne  en- 

Fioil 


Old  Concord 

joyed  their  peace;  and  the  wide  meadows  give 
vistas,  the  overhanging  trees  offer  shady  retreats, 
which  still  tempt  nature  lovers  out  upon  the 
waters. 

To  Concord  came  occasionally  Hawthorne's  more 
distant  friends  to  search  him  out.  Franklin  Pierce, 
Hawthorne's  college  classmate,  was  the  most  notable 
of  these. 

Except  for  the  editing  of  the  naval  journal  of  his 
friend  Bridge,  Hawthorne's  literary  work  while  at 
the  Manse  was  comprised  in  the  Mosses.  For  a 
long  time  he  must  have  been  too  happy  to  write : 
his  description  of  his  domestic  contentment  shows 
his  marriage  to  have  been  ideal.  But  money  mat- 
ters began  to  press  on  him,  he  was  much  troubled 
by  the  slightest  burden  of  debt,  and  decided  to 
accept  a  position  in  the  customs  service.  His 
years  at  the  Manse,  as  he  glanced  back  at  them, 
seemed  to  him  very  brief.  "In  fairyland  there  is 
no  measurement  of  time ;  and  in  a  spot  so  sheltered 
from  the  tumult  of  life's  ocean,  three  years  hastened 
away  with  noiseless  flight,  as  the  breezy  sunshine 
chases  the  cloud  shadows  across  the  depths  of  a 
still  valley.  .  .  .  We  gathered  up  our  household 
goods,  drank  a  farewell  cup  of  tea  in  our  pleasant 
little  breakfast  room,  and  passed  forth  between  the 

[  102] 


The  Hemlocks 


Chiefly   Literary 

tall  stone  gateposts  as  uncertain  as  the  wandering 
Arabs  where  our  tent  might  next  be  pitched." 

At  the  time  when  Hawthorne  first  came  to  Con- 
cord, Emerson  was  already  widely  known.  Nature, 
written  at  the  Manse,  had  been  followed  by  the 
Phi  Beta  Kappa  oration  and  the  divinity  school 
address,  two  public  utterances  which  brought  upon 
him  the  clamor  of  shocked  conservatives,  but  also 
the  eager  and  unquestioning  applause  of  the  seekers 
after  new  light.  These  last  soon  began  to  flock 
around  him  in  his  new  home  on  Lexington  Road. 

This  dwelling  is  on  the  corner  of  the  Cambridge 
Turnpike.  The  Emerson  acres  stretch  for  a  little 
distance  along  this  road ;  one  field  lies  across  the 
brook.  The  house  was  built  in  the  twenties  by  a 
well-to-do  Bostonian ;  it  long  had  the  distinction 
of  having  the  only  dry  cellar  in  Concord.  When 
in  1835  Emerson  married  for  the  second  time,  he 
purchased  the  vacant  house;  and  bringing  his 
bride  to  it  immediately  after  his  marriage,  he  lived 
there  until  his  death  in  1882.  The  building  has 
the  simplicity  of  the  best  New  England  architec- 
ture, and  its  dignity  also;  for  the  square  white 
house,  lacking  ornament,  its  Doric  porch-columns 
and  its  few  moldings  almost  severe,  stands  without 
concealment  or  pretence.     A  group  of  noble  pines 

[1051 


Old  Concord 

and  chestnuts,  with  a  few  younger  evergreens, 
shades  it  from  the  sun ;  there  is  no  other  shelter. 
If  the  retirement  and  mystery  of  the  Manse  echoes 
the  character  of  him  who  made  it  most  famous,  the 
frankness  of  this  other  house,  tempered  always  by 
the  restraint  of  a  fine  self-respect,  equally  personifies 
its  even  greater  occupant.  Hawthorne  seemed  al- 
ways to  withdraw;  Emerson  came  forward  with  a 
kindly  welcome. 

Of  all  who  came  to  that  door,  none  has  left  a  more 
vivid  picture  of  the  master  than  Howells,  who  as  a 
young  man  sought  his  acquaintance.  He  describes 
the  fine  old  man  at  his  threshold,  looking  down  at 
his  visitor  with  a  vague  serenity.  Emerson  was 
then  about  sixty,  yet  scarcely  showed  his  age  in  his 
face  of  marble  youthfulness,  refined  to  delicacy  by 
his  high  and  noble  thinking.  Howells  felt  the 
charm  of  Emerson's  eyes,  shyer,  sweeter,  and  less 
sad  than  the  similarly  charming  glance  of  Lincoln. 
The  smile  was  indeed  incomparably  sweet,  with 
a  quaintness,  gravity,  and  archness  which  Howells 
was  baffled  to  describe. 

This  inscrutableness  of  Emerson's  was  a  quality 
inseparable  from  his  insight;  but  as  Howells  well 
understood,  it  was  inseparable  also  from  his  kindli- 
ness.     These  qualities  showed  visibly  in  his  gentle 

[106] 


Chiefly   Literary 

smile,  which  endeared  him  to  the  young  people  of 
the  village.  Says  Hawthorne's  daughter,  speaking  of 
her  childhood  : 

"My  earliest  remembered  glimpse  of  him  was 
when  he  appeared  —  tall,  side-slanting,  peering  with 
almost  undue  questioning  into  my  face,  but  with  a 
smile  so  constant  as  to  seem  almost  an  added  feature, 
dressed  in  a  solemn,  slender,  dark  overcoat  —  upon 
the  Concord  high-road.  ...  It  then  became  one  of 
my  happiest  experiences  to  pass  Emerson  upon  the 
street.  A  distinct  exaltation  followed  my  glance 
into  his  splendid  face." 

And  Louisa  Alcott  has  told  of  her  enthusiasm  for 
Emerson,  how  she  brought  him  offerings  of  flowers, 
and  sang  to  him  ("a  la  Bettina",  but  modestly  un- 
heard) outside  his  window. 

The  interior  of  the  house  has  often  been  described. 
Its  famous  study,  to  the  right  of  the  front  door,  con- 
tains neither  desk  nor  desk  chair;  it  has  the  ap- 
pearance of  an  ordinary  sitting-room,  except  that 
one  side  is  lined  to  the  ceiling  with  books  on  simple 
shelves.  Yet  it  is  here  that  Emerson  wrote  all  the 
books  which  he  published  after  the  year  1835. 
Sitting  in  his  simple  rocker,  his  writing-pad  on  his 
knee,  he  culled  from  his  many  journals,  or  from 
his   own   retentive   memory,   the   golden   sentences 

[  107] 


Old  Concord 

which  go  to  make  the  treasury  of  his  collected 
essays.  It  must  be  remembered  that  Emerson  was 
in  one  sense  never  a  student.  Books  were  to  him 
but  starting  places  or  stimuli  for  his  thought;  his 
essays  and  lectures  were  slow  accretions  around  an 
original  idea ;  and  the  men  and  women  about  him, 
life  and  nature  as  he  read  them,  were  more  to  him 
than  printed  pages.  So  he  had  no  need  of  the 
paraphernalia  of  the  student.  He  seldom  quoted. 
His  books  are  full  of  native  and  homely  illustrations 
that  serve  to  mark  one  difference  between  him,  our 
great  thinker,  and  all  the  philosophers  whom  Europe 
and  Asia  had  produced. 

The  study  is  very  simply  decorated.  In  one 
corner  stands  the  bust  of  a  dear  friend.  On  the 
walls  are  photographs  and  engravings,  some  of  them 
mementoes  of  European  acquaintances.  Over  the 
black  marble  fireplace  hangs  an  oil  copy  of  Michel- 
angelo's "Fates",  a  symbolic  picture  which  could 
not  be  more  appropriately  hung.  The  furniture  is 
of  a  good  New  England  period.  The  room  is  bright ; 
it  expresses,  as  does  the  house,  the  large  simplicity 
and  unvaryirig  cheerfulness  of  the  man  who  for  so 
many  years  inhabited  it. 

In  one  other  Concord  house  did  Emerson  do  his 
writing,   the  Antiquarian  house,   then   a  boarding- 

[108] 


In  Emerson1  s  Study 


Chiefly   Literary 

house  to  which  he  escaped  when  the  press  of  wor- 
shipping Transcendentalists  broke  in  too  much 
upon  his  time. 

Behind  the  Emerson  house  spread  its  gardens, 
where  in  his  earlier  period  Emerson  used  to  work. 
Then  occurred  that  friendly  rivalry  between  him- 
self and  his  wife  of  which  he  so  quaintly  tells :  did 
he  plant  vegetables,  flowers  came  up  in  their  places. 
Mrs.  Emerson  was  a  lover  of  gardens ;  she  brought 
with  her  from  Plymouth  many  of  her  favorite  plants, 
and  year  by  year  gave  their  descendants  about  in  the 
village, — a  neighborly  habit  followed  by  her  admi- 
rable daughter,  so  that  many  Concord  gardens  have 
come,  in  part,  from  this  Emersonian  enclosure. 
But  it  was  not  Mrs.  Emerson  who  drove  her  hus- 
band from  the  work  of  gardening.  He  did  not  love 
it.  His  little  Waldo,  anxiously  watching  his  father 
at  work,  cried,  "Papa,  I  am  afraid  you'll  dig  your 
leg!"  The  philosopher  has  given  us  his  own  ac- 
count of  the  interminableness  of  the  pursuit  of 
weeds.  The  labor  fatigued  him.  And  his  con- 
clusion is  summed  up  in  the  pithy  sentence:  "The 
writer  shall  not  dig." 

But  if  we  cannot  associate  Emerson  with  his 
garden,  except  in  this  negative  fashion,  we  may 
remember  that  Thoreau  has  been  busy  all  about  the 

[mi 


Old  Concord 

place.  He  lived  at  different  periods  in  the  Emer- 
son family,  where  his  aptness  at  work  of  all  kinds 
was  constantly  apparent,  and  where  his  host  felt 
great  relief  at  this  saving  of  his  labor.  Alcott  came 
with  assistance  of  a  thoroughly  characteristic  and 
less  practical  kind.  At  the  left  of  the  barn,  within 
a  circle  of  pines  which  still  stands  there,  the  con- 
versationalist built  what  was  intended  for  a  rural 
study  for  Emerson,  constructed,  as  was  Alcott's 
way,  out  of  crooked  roots  and  boughs  which  it  was 
his  delight  to  find  in  the  woods.  This  material  so 
dominated  the  architecture  that  Thoreau,  who  as- 
sisted as  capable  of  driving  nails  to  stay,  com- 
plained that  he  felt  as  if  he  were  nowhere  doing 
nothing.  As  a  study  the  draughty  and  mosquito- 
haunted  building  was  a  failure ;  even  its  undeniable 
beauty  did  not  last  long,  for  in  order  to  be  pictu- 
resque, its  thatch  curved  upward  at  the  eaves,  and 
the  whole  soon  rotted  away. 

In  contrast  we  may  think  of  the  simple  gift  of 
Thoreau's  elder  brother.  "John  Thoreau,  Jr.,  one 
day  put  a  blue-bird's  box  on  my  barn,  —  fifteen 
years  ago,  it  must  be,  —  and  there  it  still  is,  with 
every  summer  a  melodious  family  in  it,  adorning 
the  place  and  singing  his  praises.  There's  a  gift 
for  you  which  cost  the  giver  no  money,  but  nothing 

[112] 


Chiefly   Literary 

which  he  bought  could  have  been  so  good."  The 
blue-bird  box  has  lasted  until  destroyed  by  a  spring 
gale  of  the  present  year. 

Emerson's  townsmen  appreciated  him.  "  Sam  " 
Staples  called  him  a  "first  rate  neighbor  and  one 
who  always  kept  his  fences  up."  The  attempt  to 
blackmail  him  by  moving  an  unsightly  building 
on  to  the  lot  before  his  house  met  with  a  prompt 
response  when  the  young  men  of  the  town  came  in 
the  night  and  pulled  it  down.  One  Concord 
woman,  when  asked,  "Do  you  understand  Mr. 
Emerson  ?"  to  one  of  whose  lectures  she  was  going, 
replied  :  "Not  a  word,  but  I  like  to  go  and  see  him 
stand  up  there  and  look  as  if  he  thought  every  one 
was  as  good  as  he  was."  But  a  neighboring  farmer, 
who  said  that  he  had  heard  all  of  Mr.  Emerson's 
Lyceum  lectures,  added:  "and  understood  'em, 
too."  And  unforgettable  is  the  picture  of  Concord 
welcoming  Emerson  returning  from  Europe  to  the 
house  which  his  neighbors,  after  its  fire,  had  helped 
more  distant  friends  to  rebuild.  They  erected  for 
him  a  triumphal  arch,  cheered  as  he  passed  under 
it,  and  accompanied  him  to  his  gate.  No  wonder 
that  his  emotion  choked  him,  nor  that  when  he 
could  control  his  voice  he  spoke  of  their  common 
blood  —  "one  family  —  in  Concord." 

["3] 


Old  Concord 

When  it  came  time  for  Emerson  to  die,  his  work 
had  been  done,  and  well  done.  Over  the  whole  of 
the  land  his  uplifting  message  had  taken  its  full 
effect.  He  was  a  great  force  during  the  Civil  War. 
He  guided  millions  of  young  men  and  women  on 
their  way.  Those  who  had  never  heard  his  name 
knew  his  message;  and  the  present  generation 
is  the  wiser  and  happier  for  the  spread  of  his 
spoken  and  written  word.  In  America,  but  not  in 
America  alone,  he  stands  unique  in  his  influence. 
When  in  the  spring  of  1882  he  died,  not  his  town 
only,  but  the  whole  world,  mourned. 

The  constancy  of  Emerson  to  his  ancestral  town 
is  in  contrast  to  the  goings  and  comings  of  Alcott, 
at  least  for  a  number  of  years  after  he  first  fre- 
quented Concord.  The  prospect  of  Emerson's 
neighborhood  brought  him  to  the  town,  where 
first,  before  his  unfortunate  "Fruitlands"  venture, 
he  lived  in  the  "Cottage",  sometimes  called  the 
Hosmer  Cottage,  on  Main  Street  beyond  the  rail- 
road bridge.  The  place,  though  small,  was  com- 
plete with  its  numerous  little  rooms,  its  barn  and 
sheds.  Except  for  the  disappearance  of  the  barn, 
and  the  addition  of  a  mansard  roof,  it  looks  the 
same  to-day,  modestly  brown,  unobtrusive,  and 
comfortable.     In  this  house  were  written  many  of 

["4] 


The  Alcott  "  Cottage  "  (1840-1842)  on  Main  Street 


Chiefly   Literary 

the  charming  early  letters  of  Alcott  to  his  children, 
which,  some  of  them  in  facsimile  to  show  his  draw- 
ings or  his  lettering,  have  lately  been  published  in 
such  attractive  form.  And  from  this  house  Alcott 
started  on  his  journey  to  England,  turning  at  the 
door  to  say  to  his  wife  that  he  might  have  forgotten 
to  pay  for  his  new  suit  of  clothes,  which,  however, 
she  would  attend  to,  of  course. 

And  the  patient  woman  was  wondering  how  she 
could  feed  her  family  until  his  return ! 

The  result  of  his  journey  was  the  unlucky  "Fruit- 
lands"  experiment,  which  sent  the  Alcotts  back  to 
Concord  at  the  very  lowest  point  of  their  fortune. 
The  coming  of  a  legacy,  however,  with  some  help 
from  Emerson,  enabled  them  to  buy  the  house 
which  Alcott  named  " Hillside",  now  known  as 
Hawthorne's  "Wayside."  A  "mean-looking  af- 
fair" the  house  was  when  bought,  but  Alcott  im- 
mediately enlarged  and  improved  it.  He  made 
terraces  on  the  slope  behind  the  house,  planting 
with  grapes  and  beautifying  with  summer-houses 
built  in  his  favorite  style  of  rustic  architecture. 
And  for  three  years  this  was  the  home  of  the 
happiest  part  of  Louisa  Alcott's  childhood. 

She  herself  has  given  some  pictures  of  its  fun. 
One  day  Emerson  and  Margaret  Fuller  came  to 

[117] 


Old  Concord 

call.     They  discussed  Alcott's  advanced  theories  of 
education,  and  Miss  Fuller  said : 

"'Well,  Mr.  Alcott,  you  have  been  able  to  carry 
out  your  methods  in  your  own  family,  and  I  should 
like  to  see  your  model  children.' 

"She  did  in  a  few  moments,  for  as  the  guests 
stood  on  the  door  steps  a  wild  uproar  approached, 
and  round  the  corner  of  the  house  came  a  wheel- 
barrow holding  baby  May  arrayed  as  a  queen ;  I 
was  the  horse,  bitted  and  bridled  and  driven  by  my 
elder  sister  Anna,  while  Lizzie  played  dog  and 
barked  as  loud  as  her  gentle  voice  permitted. 
*  "All  were  shouting  and  wild  with  fun  which, 
however,  came  to  a  sudden  end  as  we  espied  the 
stately  group  before  us,  for  my  foot  tripped,  and 
down  we  all  went  in  a  laughing  heap,  while  my 
mother  put  a  climax  to  the  joke  by  saying  with  a 
dramatic  wave  of  the  hand  : 

"'Here  are  the  model  children,  Miss  Fuller.'" 

These  were  the  famous  days  of  the  Alcott  dramat- 
ics. Their  means  were  of  the  simplest ;  costumes  and 
stage  fittings  were  home-made;  even  the  dramas 
themselves  were  often  written  by  the  girls.  Mrs. 
Alcott  actively  assisted,  the  philosopher  placidly 
approved,  and  the  wholesome  circle  of  girls  and  boys 
which  the  four  Alcott  children  speedily  drew  round 
themselves  eagerly  helped  in  anything  that  was 
undertaken.  No  reader  of  Little  Women  needs  any 
further  description  of  this  feature  of  life  at  Hillside. 

[118] 


Chiefly    Literary 

No  one  ever  left  in  Concord  pleasanter  memories 
than  the  four  Alcott  sisters.  In  character  they 
varied  widely.  Anna,  the  oldest,  was  domestic 
and  thoughtful,  a  good  home-maker;  yet  she  had 
a  share  of  Louisa's  ability  with  her  pen,  wrote 
quite  as  many  of  the  home-made  dramas,  has  left 
fine  letters,  and  it  was  she  (not  Louisa)  who  pinned 
inside  a  journal  the  manuscript  of  a  story  of  her 
own,  which  she  read  aloud  to  the  family,  receiving 
their  hearty  approval.  Louisa  was  the  tomboy, 
ready  for  any  prank;  she  was  also  ambitious  and 
a  hard  worker,  with  a  special  bent  for  writing  which 
for  many  years  went  unrewarded.  Elizabeth  was 
gentle  and  sweet,  of  a  constitution  not  weak,  but 
later  broken  by  a  severe  attack  of  scarlet  fever 
brought  by  the  mother's  devotion  to  her  work 
among  the  poor.  May,  the  youngest  daughter, 
had  some  of  Louisa's  adventurousness ;  she  rode 
recklessly  when  at  rare  intervals  she  could  secure 
a  mount.  Her  talent  was  artistic,  and  was  de- 
votedly improved;  she  is  famous  for  her  copies  of 
Turner.  She  possessed  a  large  share  of  the  Alcott 
quality  of  generosity,  and  gave  practical  help  to 
struggling  beginners.  Together,  these  four  made  a 
household  that  naturally  attracted  the  young  folk 
of  their  town. 

[»9i 


Old  Concord 

But  no  one  in  the  Alcott  household  could  fail  of  ac- 
quaintance with  the  serious  side  of  life.  It  may  have 
seemed  romantic  to  shelter  fugitive  slaves.  "My 
first  pupil,"  wrote  Miss  Alcott,  "was  a  very  black 
George  Washington  whom  I  taught  to  write  on  the 
hearth  with  charcoal,  his  big  fingers  finding  pen  and 
pencil  unmanageable."  Yet  the  same  qualities  which 
led  Alcott  to  take  this  noble  risk,  brought  him  also, 
and  frequently,  to  the  edge  of  pennilessness.  The  fam- 
ily shared  its  dinner  with  all  who  came  to  ask.  They 
took  in  some  sickly  wayfarers  with  the  result  that  the 
whole  family  caught  small-pox.  True,  once  at  least 
the  family  generosity  was  almost  immediately  justified. 

"One  snowy  Saturday  night,"  writes  Miss  Alcott, 
"when  our  wood  was  very  low,  a  poor  child  came  to 
beg  a  little,  as  the  baby  was  sick  and  the  father  on 
a  spree  with  all  his  wages.  My  mother  hesitated 
at  first,  as  we  had  also  a  baby.  Very  cold  weather 
was  upon  us,  and  a  Sunday  to  be  got  through  before 
more  wood  could  be  had.  My  father  said,  'Give 
half  our  stock,  and  trust  in  Providence ;  the  weather 
will  moderate,  or  wood  will  come.'  Mother  laughed, 
and  answered  in  her  cheery  way,  'Well,  their  need  is 
greater  than  ours,  and  if  our  half  gives  out,  we  can 
go  to  bed  and  tell  stories.'  So  a  generous  half  went 
to  the  poor  neighbor,  and  a  little  later  in  the  eve, 
when  the  storm  still  raged  and  we  were  about  to 
cover  our  fire  to  keep  it,  a  knock  came,  and  a  farmer 
who  usually  supplied  us  appeared,  saying  anxiously, 

[  120] 


Chiefly   Literary 

'  I  started  for  Boston  with  a  load  of  wood,  but  it 
drifts  so  I  want  to  go  home.  Wouldn't  you  like  to 
have  me  drop  the  wood  here  ;  it  would  accommodate 
me,  and  you  needn't  hurry  about  paying  for  it.' 
'Yes,'  said  father;  and  as  the  man  went  off  he 
turned  to  mother  with  a  look  that  much  impressed 
us  children  with  his  gifts  as  a  seer,  '  Didn't  I  tell  you 
wood  would  come  if  the  weather  did  not  moderate  ? ' 
Mother's  motto  was,  'Hope,  and  keep  busy,'  and 
one  of  her  sayings,  '  Cast  your  bread  upon  the  waters, 
and  after  many  days  it  will  come  back  buttered.' " 

With  such  a  husband,  lovable  but  unworldly, 
Mrs.  Alcott  needed  these  mottoes.  Though  Emerson 
often  acted  as  a  Providence,  the  family  was  fre- 
quently on  short  commons.  But  nothing  could 
shake  their  belief  in  its  head,  nor,  for  that  matter, 
did  Emerson  waver  in  his  admiration  of  his  friend. 
He  wrote,  "Once  more  for  Alcott  it  may  be  said  that 
he  is  sincerely  and  necessarily  engaged  to  his  task, 
and  not  wilfully  or  ostentatiously  or  pecuniarily." 

And  Staples,  the  jailer,  gave  a  similar  tribute 
when  he  said  after  he  had  arrested  Alcott  for  re- 
fusal to  pay  his  poll-tax  as  a  protest  against  the 
laws  :  "  I  vum,  I  believe  it  was  nothin'  but  principle, 
for  I  never  heard  a  man  talk  honester." 

It  was  inevitable,  however,  that  the  family  should 
get  deeper  and  deeper  into  difficulties.  "The  trials 
of  life  began  about  this  time,"  wrote  Miss  Alcott, 

[121] 


Old  Concord 

"and  my  happy  childhood  ended."  The  house 
which  saw  so  much  merriment  saw  also  the  two  older 
sisters  learning  to  appreciate  the  burden  which  lay 
upon  their  mother,  the  duties  which  they  them- 
selves could  not  escape.  Mrs.  Alcott's  anxieties 
so  preyed  upon  her  that  a  Boston  friend,  coming 
to  call,  found  her  unable  to  conceal  the  traces  of 
recent  tears.  "Abby  Alcott,"  demanded  the  visitor, 
"what  does  this  mean  ?"  The  story  being  told,  she 
oifered  Mrs.  Alcott  employment  in  Boston. 

As  was  usual,  the  proposal  was  taken  to  the  fam- 
ily council.  In  Boston  the  father  could  find  more 
chance  to  make  money;  the  two  older  girls  were 
able  to  teach.  "It  was  an  anxious  council,"  wrote 
Miss  Alcott  many  years  after,  "and  always  pre- 
ferring action  to  discussion,  I  took  a  brisk  run  over 
the  hill  and  then  settled  down  for  'a  good  think'  in 
my  favorite  retreat.  It  was  an  old  cart-wheel, 
half  hidden  in  grass  under  the  locusts  where  I  used 
to  sit  to  wrestle  with  my  sums.  ...  I  think  I 
began  to  shoulder  my  burden  then  and  there." 

That  burden  she  took  to  Boston,  and  nine  years 
later  she  brought  it  back  again.  Let  any  one  who 
supposes  Miss  Alcott's  life  was  happy,  read  care- 
fully her  letters  and  journals  of  those  years.  There 
was    drudgery    at    the    housekeeping,    uncongenial 

[  122] 


Chiefly   Literary 

teaching,  humiliation  from  unkind  employers,  and 
always  the  disappointment  of  continual  failure  in 
the  work  for  which  she  felt  herself  best  fitted. 
Gradually  she  came  to  know  that  if  prosperity  was 
to  be  won  for  the  family,  it  must  be  by  her  alone. 
By  his  famous,  but  not  profitable,  "conversations" 
her  father  could  never  hope  to  keep  the  family  even 
in  bread  and  butter.  With  this  knowledge,  then, 
in  1857  she  came  back  to  Concord,  weighed  down 
also  by  anxiety  for  the  life  of  her  sister. 

In  Concord,  Elizabeth  Alcott  died,  and  in  Sleepy 
Hollow  cemetery  she  lies  buried.  Louisa,  who  had 
interrupted  her  work  to  nurse  her  dying  sister,  now 
took  it  up  again.  Her  sister  Anna's  engagement 
seemed  at  first  only  another  bereavement:  "I 
moaned  in  private,"  says  her  journal,  "over  my 
great  loss."  But  fifteen  years  afterward  she  wrote, 
"Now  that  John  is  dead,  I  can  truly  say  we  all 
had  cause  to  bless  the  day  he  came  into  the  family ; 
for  we  gained  a  son  and  brother,  and  Anna  the 
best  husband  ever  known."  Her  writing  of  imagina- 
tive and  even  lurid  tales  prospered  somewhat ;  but 
she  was  writing  for  a  market  that  seldom  pays  well. 
She  wrote  a  short  play,  which  was  produced  without 
either  success  or  failure ;  she  taught  again  ;  she  tried 
again  the  pleasures  of  dramatics  in  Concord.     The 

[  123  ] 


Old  Concord 

approach  of  the  country  toward  its  years  of  trial 
found  her  intensely  interested;  and  when  at  last 
the  war  broke  out,  she  was  anxious  to  serve  as  a 
nurse. 

The  family  was  now  living  in  the  "Orchard 
House."  "Hillside"  had  been  sold  to  Mr.  Haw- 
thorne. The  old  house  on  the  new  land  had  been 
considered  useless ;  but  Mr.  Alcott  proved  its 
timbers  to  be  still  sound,  and  repaired  it  according 
to  his  fancy.  The  few  odd  external  ornaments  and 
the  many  individual  conveniences  inside  are  of  his 
invention.  His  daughters  did  the  painting  and 
papering,  and  May  devised  and  executed  the  charm- 
ing decorations  which  still  are  there.  As  to  the 
furnishings,  it  is  pleasant  to  know  that  their  sim- 
plicity, so  little  in  agreement  with  the  fussy  taste 
of  the  day,  but  quite  in  accord  with  modern  ideas, 
arose  as  much  from  Alcott  good  sense  as  from 
Alcott  poverty.  The  great  elms  in  front  were  the 
chief  beauty  of  the  place;  the  orchard,  in  which 
the  whole  family  took  great  pleasure,  has  since 
disappeared.  It  is  natural  that,  with  the  wide 
changes  in  their  older  home,  all  the  early  Alcott 
traditions  should  cluster  around  this  place.  Its 
simple  aspect  and  comfortable  proportions  speak  of 
home  and  hospitality. 

[  124] 


Orchard  House,  Home  of  the  Alcotts 


Chiefly   Literary 

From  this  house  Miss  Alcott  departed  when  she 
received  her  call  to  go  to  the  front.  "We  had  all," 
she  says,  "been  full  of  courage  till  the  last  moment 
came;  then  we  all  broke  down.  I  realized  that  I 
had  taken  my  life  in  my  hand,  and  might  never  see 
them  all  again.  I  said,  'Shall  I  stay,  Mother  ?'  as 
I  hugged  her  close.  '  No,  go !  and  the  Lord  be  with 
you!'  answered  the  Spartan  woman;  and  till  I 
turned  the  corner  she  bravely  smiled  and  waved 
her  wet  handkerchief  on  the  doorstep."  It  proved 
that  Miss  Alcott  had  indeed  taken  her  life  in  her 
hand.  A  period  of  arduous  nursing  resulted  in  an 
attack  of  typhoid  pneumonia,  which  forever  took 
away  her  elasticity.  From  that  period  the  physical 
joy  of  life  departed. 

And  yet  the  Alcott  success,  so  long  worked  for, 
was  now  at  hand.  Her  father  had  already  received 
the  approval  of  his  town,  by  being  appointed  super- 
intendent of  the  public  schools.  His  daughter  now 
wrote  her  Hospital  Sketches,  which  were  well  re- 
ceived by  the  public.  She  felt  that  at  last  she  had 
found  her  vein  and  could  be  sure  of  herself.  Her 
powers  and  her  reputation  slowly  grew,  until  at 
last  she  wrote  in  her  diary : 

"September,  1867. — Niles,  partner  of  Roberts, 
asked  me  to  write  a  girls'  book.     Said  Fd  try." 

[127] 


Old  Concord 

She  tried.     The  result  was  Little  Women. 

What  would  appear  to  be  the  first  half  of  the 
book  was  written  at  the  Orchard  House  in  the  spring 
and  early  summer  of  1868.  "I  plod  away,"  she 
wrote,  "though  I  don't  like  this  sort  of  thing.  Never 
liked  girls  or  knew  many,  except  my  sisters  ;  but  our 
queer  plays  and  experiences  may  prove  interesting, 
though  I  doubt  it." 

No  wonder  that,  years  afterward,  she  wrote 
against  this  entry  in  her  journal,  "Good  joke." 
The  publisher's  test  of  the  book  was  made  by  giv- 
ing the  manuscript  into  the  hands  of  a  girl  whose 
absorbed  interest,  whose  laughter  and  tears,  were 
sufficient  proof  of  its  quality.  The  second  part  of  the 
book  was  begun  in  November.  "Girls  write  to  ask 
who  the  little  women  marry,  as  if  that  was  the 
only  end  and  aim  of  a  woman's  life.  I  won't  marry 
Jo  to  Laurie  to  please  any  one." 

And  so  at  last  the  "pathetic  family,"  as  she 
called  it,  came  into  its  own.  She  might,  in  a  letter 
home,  crow  about  "the  Alcotts,  who  can't  make 
money."  Her  "rumpled  soul"  was  soothed  by  the 
thought  (and  in  it  we  can  see  the  extent  of  her 
absorption  in  her  family)  that  "we  made  our  own 
money  ourselves." 

But  the  cost  was  very  great.     The  drain  of  over- 

[128] 


Chiefly   Literary 

work  and  the  habit  of  industry  often  made  mere 
existence  a  burden.  Though  from  this  time  her 
books  for  young  people  were  the  delight  of  the 
nation,  she  wrote  with  continual  weariness.  Yet 
no  hint  of  this  feeling  crept  into  her  pages,  or  dulled 
the  vivacity  of  her  tales.  The  habit  of  daily  heroism 
prevented. 

Through  childhood,  Miss  Alcott  had  longed  for  a 
room  of  her  own.  She  had  received  it  at  "Hill- 
side." Her  father,  all  through  his  life  till  now,  had 
wished  to  found  a  School  of  Philosophy,  and  now 
at  last  it  was  made  possible.  At  one  side  of  the 
Alcott  place,  well  to  the  left  of  Orchard  House  as 
one  views  it  from  the  road,  was  built  the  simple 
but  not  unpicturesque  building  which  in  the  sum- 
mer of  1880  delighted  Alcott's  heart  with  its  school 
of  thirty  pupils  and  its  many  more  visitors.  There 
was  much  lecturing ;  the  town  and  the  country  were 
amused ;  and  Miss  Alcott,  not  for  the  first  time,  in 
the  midst  of  the  extra  work  which  he  threw  upon 
her,  derived  innocent  entertainment  from  her  guile- 
less father.  The  school  existed  for  only  a  few 
years.  The  building  has  been  removed,  and  its 
influence  has  departed;  but  it  was  for  more  than 
twenty  years  one  of  the  Concord  sights. 

Louisa  Alcott's  burdens  began  to  grow  too  great 

[  129] 


Old  Concord 

for  her.  Her  mother  had  died;  her  sister  May, 
after  the  short  term  of  her  European  marriage, 
died  also,  and  sent  to  Concord  the  baby  daughter 
to  be  her  aunt's  solace  and  care.  The  little  family 
moved  to  the  Thoreau  house  on  Main  Street,  where 
they  lived  with  the  widowed  sister.  Here,  or  in 
Boston  where  she  also  used  to  stay,  with  difficulty 
Miss  Alcott  finished  her  remaining  stories.  Many 
claims  on  her  sympathy  and  purse  came  to  her, 
often  from  perfect  strangers,  and  in  her  nervous 
state  these  kept  her  at  work.  But  her  father  was 
placid  to  the  end.  The  big  study  which  was  built 
for  him  still  contains  his  books  and  his  many  jour- 
nals ;  the  pictures  and  furnishings  of  the  house  still 
speak  the  Alcott  taste;  and  the  simplicity  of  the 
building  reminds  of  the  plain  virtues  of  a  family 
at  which  we  can  only  wonder.  They  passed  away. 
Alcott  died  in  Boston  on  March  4,  1888.  On  the 
morning  of  his  funeral  his  famous  daughter,  then 
living  at  her  physician's  in  Roxbury,  followed  him 
to  rest. 

Of  the  Alcott  family,  the  world  remembers  two 
for  their  achievements.  Their  town  remembers 
more.  For  patience  and  hard  work  in  difficulties, 
for  unwavering  purpose  in  developing  their  talents, 
for  strong  family  feeling,  a  brave  front  to  the  world, 

[130] 


Chiefly   Literary 

neighborliness,  and  ungrudging  generosity,  in  Con- 
cord the  Alcotts  will  never  be  forgotten. 

We  have  seen  that  Alcott's  "Hillside"  became  the 
property  of  Hawthorne,  who  changed  its  name  to 
"Wayside."  After  seven  years  spent  away  from 
Concord,  chiefly  in  Salem,  Lenox,  and  West  Newton, 
Hawthorne  returned,  in  1852,  and  occupied  the 
house,  unchanged  in  form  from  Alcott's  day.  A 
letter  of  his  wife  describes  her  arrival  in  advance  of 
his,  the  drying  of  mattresses  wet  while  moving, 
the  nailing  down  of  the  carpet  lining,  and  the  "ad- 
mirable effect"  of  the  woodwork,  "painted  in  oak." 
He  enjoyed  the  place,  cut  his  beanpoles  in  the 
woods,  sold  his  hay,  was  rather  unappreciative  of 
his  farming  land  across  the  road,  and  rightly  antici- 
pated that  his  waste  land  on  the  hilltop  behind 
would  yield  him  the  true  interest  on  his  investment. 
Alcott's  terraces  he  let  grow  up  with  trees.  And 
perhaps  remembering  his  own  vision,  as  expressed 
in  one  of  his  prefaces,  expecting  here  to  see  it  ful- 
filled, he  named  the  place  "Wayside."  He  had 
written:  "I  sat  down  by  the  wayside  of  life,  like  a 
man  under  enchantment,  and  a  shrubbery  sprang 
up  around  me,  and  the  bushes  grew  to  be  saplings, 
and  the  saplings  became  trees,  until  no  exit  ap- 
peared possible,  through  the  entangling  depths  of 

[131] 


Old  Concord 

my  obscurity."     And  truly  the  vision  pictures  his 
mental  life  at  this  place. 

Hawthorne's  great  books  were  not  written  in  Con- 
cord. All  he  accomplished  in  his  first  tenancy  of  the 
new  house  was  Tanglewood  Tales,  and  a  campaign 
biography  of  his  friend  Pierce.  We  know  that  at  this 
time  his  health  was  good,  that  he  picnicked  in  the 
woods  with  his  family,  and  saw  his  neighbors  as  little 
as  he  could.  He  had  no  plans  for  going  away ;  but 
Pierce's  election  to  the  Presidency  led  to  the  offer  of 
the  consulate  at  Liverpool,  and  Hawthorne  accepted 
it.  He  left  in  1853,  not  to  return  until  the  sum- 
mer of  i860.  He  brought  for  his  final  sojourn  a  wide 
acquaintance  with  people,  which  at  last  made  him 
accustomed  to  meet  strangers.  His  new  book,  the 
Marble  Faun,  had  placed  him  at  the  summit  of  his 
fame.     But  his  physical  health  had  broken. 

Coming  with  many  literary  plans,  he  wished  to 
secure  himself  a  quiet  study.  So  besides  other 
alterations  he  built  the  "tower"  which  is  the  strik- 
ing feature  of  " Wayside."  Different  as  the  house 
is  from  the  Manse  in  its  lack  of  seclusion,  the  tower 
nevertheless  gives  a  certain  suggestion  of  inaccessi- 
bility. Besides,  the  mysterious  woods  creep  close. 
Even  here  there  is  that  romantic  aloofness  which 
Hawthorne's  nature  always  created. 

[  132] 


Hawthorne' 's  "  Wayside 


Chiefly   Literary 

In  the  house,  the  tower-study  is  the  strongest 
reminder  of  him.  "A  staircase,  narrow  and  steep," 
wrote  his  son,  "ascends  through  the  floor,  the  open- 
ing being  covered  by  a  sort  of  gabled  structure,  to 
one  end  of  which  a  standing  desk  was  affixed ;  a 
desk  table  was  placed  against  the  side.  The  room 
was  about  twenty  feet  square,  with  four  gables, 
and  the  ceiling,  instead  of  being  flat,  was  a  four- 
sided  vault,  following  the  conformation  of  the  roof. 
There  were  five  windows,  the  southern  and  eastern 
ones  opening  upon  a  flat  tin  roof,  upon  which  one 
might  walk  or  sit  in  suitable  weather.  The  walls 
were  papered  with  paper  of  a  light  golden  hue, 
without  figures.  There  was  a  closet  for  books  on 
each  side  of  the  northern  window,  which  looked 
out  upon  the  hill.  A  small  fireplace,  to  which  a 
stove  was  attached,  was  placed  between  the  two 
southern  windows.  The  room  was  pleasant  in 
autumn  and  spring;  but  in  winter  the  stove  ren- 
dered the  air  stifling,  and  in  summer  the  heat  of 
the  sun  was  scarcely  endurable.  Hawthorne,  how- 
ever, spent  several  hours  a  day  in  his  study,  and 
it  was  there  that  the  Old  Home  was  written,  and 
Septimius  Felton,  and  Dr.  Grimskazae,  and  the 
Dolliver  fragment." 

Howells,  coming  on  the  same  visit  on  which  he 

[135] 


Old  Concord 

saw  Emerson,  called  also  upon  Hawthorne  at  "Way- 
side," and  has  given  a  pleasant  picture  of  the  great 
romancer.  But  Alcott,  living  next  door,  has  his 
own  word  to  say  of  his  neighbor's  shyness  and  de- 
sire to  avoid  notice.  The  truth  was  that  though 
his  consular  experiences  had  fitted  Hawthorne  to 
meet  people  when  necessary,  the  natural  gloom  of 
his  nature  was  pressing  on  him  now,  accentuated 
by  both  his  own  declining  health  and  the  great 
crisis  through  which  the  nation  was  passing.  Pierce, 
to  whose  administration  was  laid  the  blame  of  the 
coming  of  the  Civil  War,  was  very  unpopular ;  and 
as  Pierce's  friend,  Hawthorne  felt  the  situation 
keenly.  Brooding,  he  found  himself  unfit  for  work. 
He  retired  often  to  his  hilltop  toward  the  close  of 
the  day;  and  pacing  up  and  down  along  the  crest, 
he  wore  the  path  of  which  the  traces  still  exist. 
His  daughter  wrote:  "We  could  catch  sight  of  him 
going  back  and  forth  up  there,  with  now  and  then 
a  pale  blue  gleam  of  sky  among  the  trees,  against 
which  his  figure  passed  clear.  .  .  .  Along  this 
path  in  spring  huddled  pale  blue  violets,  of  a  blue 
that  held  sunlight,  pure  as  his  own  eyes.  .  .  .  My 
father's  violets  were  the  wonder  of  the  year  for  us." 
His  literary  motives  in  these  last  years  were  in 
part  connected  with  his  house.     Thoreau  had  told 

[136] 


Chiefly   Literary 

him  that  it  had  once  been  inhabited  by  a  man  who 
believed  he  should  never  die.  The  idea  took  hold 
of  Hawthorne,  and  he  seemed  unable  to  escape  from 
it.  From  England  he  had  brought  the  motive  of  a 
bloody  footstep.  Both  of  these  he  wrought  into 
Septimius  Felton,  the  scene  of  which  was  laid  in  the 
house  and  (as  we  have  seen)  on  the  hilltop  behind. 
Earthly  immortality  was  to  have  taken  a  large  part 
in  the  Dolliver  Romance,  which  he  began,  and  the 
first  part  of  which  he  published,  but  which  was  never 
finished.  For  Hawthorne's  own  death  was  drawing 
near. 

His  decline  came  visibly.  His  once  black  hair 
began  to  turn  white.  He  was  thinner,  paler,  stooped 
a  little,  and  his  vigorous  step  became  slow.  A  trip 
toward  the  south  bringing  him  only  the  shock  of  the 
sudden  death  of  his  companion,  he  started  with 
Pierce  to  the  White  Mountains.  And  it  is  ap- 
propriate that  of  him,  who  dwelt  so  persistently 
upon  the  idea  of  death,  we  should  have  two  clear 
pictures  of  his  children's  farewells. 

"  A  few  days  before  he  and  Pierce  set  forth,"  wrote 
his  son,  "  I  came  up  to  Concord  from  Cambridge  to 
make  some  requests  of  him.  I  remained  only  an 
hour,  having  to  take  the  afternoon  train  back  to 
college.  He  was  sitting  in  the  bedroom  upstairs  ;  my 
mother  and  my  two  sisters  were  there  also.     It  was 

[  137] 


Old  Concord 

a  pleasant  morning  in  early  May.  I  made  my 
request  (whatever  it  was)  and,  after  listening  to  the 
ins  and  outs  of  the  whole  matter,  he  acceded  to  it. 
I  had  half  anticipated  refusal,  and  was  the  more 
gratified.  I  said  good-by,  and  went  to  the  door, 
where  I  stood  a  moment  looking  back  into  the  room. 
He  was  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  leaning 
against  it,  and  looking  at  me  with  a  smile.  He  had 
on  his  old  dark  coat;  his  hair  was  almost  wholly 
white,  and  he  was  very  pale.  But  the  expression  of 
his  face  was  one  of  beautiful  kindness,  —  the  gladness 
of  having  done  me  a  pleasure,  and  perhaps  something 
more,  that  I  did  not  then  know  of." 

His  daughter  described  him  as  he  left  for  his 
journey.  "Like  a  snow  image  of  an  unbending 
but  an  old,  old  man,  he  stood  for  a  moment  gazing 
at  me.  My  mother  sobbed,  as  she  walked  be- 
side him  to  the  carriage.  We  have  missed  him  in 
the  sunlight,  in  the  storm,  in  the  twilight,  ever 
since." 

Hawthorne  never  returned  from  his  journey.  He 
died  at  Plymouth,  New  Hampshire,  in  the  night  of 
May  18-19,  1864,  peacefully  in  his  sleep.  His 
body  lies  buried  in  Sleepy  Hollow  cemetery.  Among 
his  trees  near  " Wayside"  a  simple  memorial  was 
erected  to  him  on  the  centenary  of  his  birth. 

Beyond  "Wayside",  and  close  at  hand,  stands 
the  little  cottage  of  Ephraim  Wales  Bull,  the  orig- 

[138] 


Chiefly   Literary 

inator  of  the  Concord  grape.  He  came  to  Con- 
cord to  carry  on  his  trade  of  a  gold-beater ;  he  had 
a  little  workshop  and  kept  several  workmen.  But 
as  time  went  on,  his  taste  for  horticulture  caused 
him  to  interrupt  the  more  lucrative  business  for 
the  pursuit  of  a  favorite  desire,  the  breeding  of  a 
grape  which  should  be  earlier  and  hardier  than 
any  then  in  cultivation,  since  the  grapes  of  his 
day,  chief  among  them  the  Catawba  and  Isabella, 
gave  very  poor  results  in  New  England.  He  had 
the  patience  and  skill  of  the  true  originator.  Find- 
ing in  his  grounds  a  wild  grape  of  somewhat  superior 
flavor,  he  crossed  it  with  the  Isabella,  and  saved 
the  fruit.  "I  put  these  grapes,"  he  said,  "whole, 
into  the  ground,  skin  and  all,  at  a  depth  of  two 
inches,  about  the  first  of  October,  after  they  had 
thoroughly  ripened,  and  covered  the  row  with 
boards.  I  nursed  these  seedlings  for  six  years,  and 
of  the  large  number  only  one  proved  worth  the 
saving.  On  the  ioth  of  September,  1849,  I  was 
enabled  to  pick  a  bunch  of  grapes,  and  when  I 
showed  them  to  a  neighbor,  who  tasted  them,  he 
at  once  exclaimed,  'Why,  this  is  better  than  the 
Isabella !'" 

From  this  grape,  which  he  named  the  Concord, 
Bull  gained  fame,  and  but  very  little  money.     He 

[  139] 


Old  Concord 

had  not  the  business  knowledge  of  the  nurserymen, 
into  whose  pockets  passed  most  of  the  profits  from 
this  and  other  grapes  which  the  horticulturist  bred. 
The  result  was  that  he  died  in  poverty,  though 
never  neglected.  He  held  as  a  result  of  his  reputa- 
tion several  elective  or  appointive  offices,  and  was 
always  much  respected.  Personally  he  was  a  man 
of  oddities.  He  had  a  formidable  temper;  oc- 
casionally at  the  Hawthornes'  could  be  heard  the 
distant  sound  of  his  tremendous  wrath.  When  in 
public  life,  he  wore  a  silk  hat,  shaved  carefully,  and 
wore  a  wig  of  glossy  yellow-brown  hair.  But  when 
he  retired,  "a  transformation  occurred  almost  as 
startling  as  those  in  a  theatre,  and  he  appeared  as 
an  aged  man  with  snow  white  beard,  nearly  bald, 
oftenest  seen  in  a  dressing  gown  and  little  black 
silk  cap,  tending  his  plants  lovingly."  He  died  in 
1895  and  is  buried  near  his  famous  neighbor.  The 
best  memorial  of  him  is  the  ancient  original  grape- 
vine, still  to  be  seen  by  its  trellis,  near  the  little 
Grapevine  Cottage. 

Lexington  Road  leads  on  to  Meriam's  Corner, 
where  the  tablet  in  the  wall  marks  the  beginning 
of  the  running  fight  with  the  British.  From  this 
place  one  can  almost  see,  up  the  old  road  to  Bed- 
ford and  beyond  the  Meriam  homestead,  the  site 

[  HO] 


Academy  Lane 


Chiefly   Literary 

of  Thoreau's  birthplace.  But  the  house  has  been 
moved  away,  and  indeed  it  would  be  difficult  to 
limit  one's  memories  of  Thoreau's  early  years  to 
the  confines  of  a  house.  His  strong  taste  for  an 
outdoor  life  possessed  him  through  his  youth,  and 
steadily  growing  stronger  after  his  college  days, 
at  last  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  live  the 
conventional  life.  He  did  indeed  make  the  first 
venture  common  to  the  young  college  graduate  — 
school-teaching.  In  the  old  schoolhouse  on  the 
Square  he  tried  this  profession,  though  on  the  new 
principle  of  avoiding  corporal  punishment.  But 
for  those  days  this  was  too  ideal.  The  school  com- 
mittee complained.  Thoreau  tried  their  method  by 
whipping  a  half  dozen  scholars  on  the  same  day, 
and  that  night  sent  in  his  resignation  because  his 
arrangements  had  been  interfered  with.  He  then 
taught  with  his  brother  John  in  the  new  Concord 
Academy,  the  site  of  which  is  recalled  by  the  name 
of  the  street  on  which  it  stood,  Academy  Lane. 
Here,  though  he  was  happier,  he  was  not  free,  and 
so  turned  away  from  the  work. 

His  life  at  the  Emerson  house  allowed  him  the 
desultory  employment  which  he  preferred,  giving 
him  time  to  himself.  But  as  more  and  more  he 
desired  complete  independence,  so  he  experimented 

[143] 


Old  Concord 

toward  the  means  for  it.  He  found  that  by  a  few 
weeks'  labor  in  the  year  (oftenest  at  surveying)  he 
could  satisfy  his  simple  needs  :  plain  food,  service- 
able clothes,  a  book  or  two,  and  nothing  more.  It 
must  not  be  supposed  that  he  ever  desired  to  eman- 
cipate himself  from  human  society;  he  enjoyed  it 
too  much,  and  never  made  a  move  toward  avoiding 
his  friends.  Indeed,  in  spite  of  his  strong  taste  for 
solitude,  he  had  an  equally  strong  affection  for  his 
family  and  his  town.  Concord  was  enough  for  him 
to  judge  the  world  by.  When  once,  while  he  was 
still  a  boy,  his  mother  suggested  that  some  day  he 
would  buckle  on  his  knapsack  and  roam  abroad, 
his  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  he  was  comforted  only 
by  his  sister's  saying  :  "No,  Henry,  you  shall  not  go ; 
you  shall  stay  at  home  and  live  with  us."  Stay  at 
home  in  one  sense  he  did  not,  yet  in  another  sense  he 
did.  He  was  never  long  happy  away  from  Concord. 
So  when  in  1845  he  made  his  famous  experiment 
at  Walden,  he  did  not  mean  entirely  to  escape  from 
society.  He  knew  very  well  the  shortest  route 
home,  and  often  took  it.  "I  went  to  the  woods,"  he 
wrote,  "because  I  wished  to  live  deliberately,  to 
front  only  the  essential  facts  of  life,  and  see  if  I 
could  learn  what  it  had  to  teach,  and  not,  when  I 
came  to  die,  discover  that  I  had  not  lived." 

[144] 


Chiefly   Literary 

Walden,  which  lies  by  road  less  than  two  miles 
from  Concord  village,  is  an  irregular  pond  of  some 
sixty-four  acres,  now,  as  then,  completely  sur- 
rounded by  woods.  Campers  and  the  railroad 
have  brought  fires  to  the  woodland,  and  the  gipsy 
moth  has  necessitated  much  cutting;  therefore  the 
pond  is  not  so  beautiful  as  in  Thoreau's  day.  But 
the  dominating  bluffs  are  the  same,  and  the  place 
seems  still  remote.  Here  on  Emerson's  land,  above 
a  placid  cove,  Thoreau  built  the  hut  whose  site  is 
marked  by  the  cairn  of  stones  ;  the  boards  he  bought 
from  an  Irishman's  shanty;  Alcott,  Hawthorne, 
Curtis,  and  others  helped  him  to  erect  the  frame ; 
the  furnishings  he  largely  made  himself,  and  he 
settled  there  before  summer.  His  steadiest  em- 
ployment was  on  the  beanfield  which  he  planted 
near  the  road ;  his  real  pursuit  was  in  observing  the 
life  of  the  fields  and  woods. 

"Snakes,"  said  Emerson,  "coiled  round  his  leg, 
the  fishes  swam  into  his  hand,  and  he  took  them 
out  of  the  water;  he  pulled  the  woodchuck  out  of 
his  hole  by  the  tail,  and  took  the  foxes  under  his 
protection  from  the  hunters."  Once,  when  a  spar- 
row alighted  on  his  shoulder,  he  felt  it  "a  greater 
honor  than  any  epaulet  he  could  have  worn."  He 
studied  the  fish,  the  loons  on  the  lake,  the  ants  in 

[145] 


Old  Concord 

his  woodpile.  In  the  pages  of  his  Walden,  and  in 
his  later  essays,  these  things  are  charmingly  re- 
flected. 

Friends  came  to  see  him  at  his  hut.  He  speaks 
oftenest  of  Channing  and  Alcott,  but  others  came 
as  well,  not  always  to  his  satisfaction.  To  such  as 
did  not  know  when  their  visit  had  ended,  he  gave  a 
broad  hint  by  leaving  them,  answering  them  "from 
greater  and  greater  remoteness." 

It  is  fairly  certain  that  the  hut  at  Walden  was  a 
station  for  the  underground  railway.  "It  offers 
advantages,"  he  wrote,  "which  it  may  not  be  good 
policy  to  divulge."  But  whether  or  not  Thoreau 
harbored  slaves  here,  we  have  a  picture  of  him  in 
this  employment  at  a  later  period.  "I  sat  and 
watched  the  singular  and  tender  devotion  of  the 
scholar  to  the  slave.  He  must  be  fed,  his  swollen 
feet  bathed,  and  he  must  think  of  nothing  but  rest. 
Again  and  again  this  coolest  and  calmest  of  men 
drew  near  to  the  trembling  negro,  and  bade  him  feel 
at  home,  and  have  no  fear  that  any  power  should 
again  wrong  him.  He  could  not  walk  this  day, 
but  must  mount  guard  over  the  fugitive." 

During  his  Walden  period,  Thoreau  had  his  brief 
experience  with  the  law.  Like  Alcott  at  an  earlier 
day,  he  had  refused  to  pay  his  poll-tax,  in  protest 

[i46] 


Thoreau's  Cairn  at  W alien 


Chiefly   Literary 

against  the  Mexican  War.  Going  to  the  village  to 
have  a  shoe  mended,  he  was  arrested  and  put  in 
jail,  where  Emerson  hastened  to  him. 

"Henry,  why  are  you  here  ?" 

"Why  are  you  not  here  ?"  was  Thoreau's  re- 
joinder. He  took  his  imprisonment  calmly,  was 
interested  in  the  new  experience,  placidly  accepted 
his  release  on  the  morrow  because  some  one  had  paid 
his  fine,  and  presently  was  leading  a  huckleberry 
party  to  a  hilltop  from  which  "the  State  was  no- 
where to  be  seen." 

Thoreau  left  Walden  at  the  end  of  two  years,  and 
lived  at  the  Emerson  house  for  nearly  two  years 
more,  during  part  of  which  the  philosopher  was  in 
Europe.  Then  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  Thoreau  lived 
in  the  house  which  his  father,  with  his  aid,  rebuilt 
on  the  main  street.  Literary  success  came  to  him ; 
he  was  widely  known,  and  had  new  congenial  ac- 
quaintances. But  he  still  lived  an  individual  life. 
He  tramped  the  fields  as  he  had  always  done,  fre- 
quented farmhouses  in  his  study  of  human  nature, 
led  the  children  to  the  woods,  or,  in  the  village 
street,  made  them  hear  the  vireo's  song  which  till 
then  they  had  not  noticed.  He  interested  himself, 
but  only  spasmodically,  in  his  father's  pencil-mak- 
ing, which  was  done  in  the  ell  of  the  house.     Hav- 

[  149] 


Old  Concord 

ing  improved  the  machine  for  grinding  the  lead,  and 
after  learning  to  make  a  perfect  pencil,  he  gave  up 
the  work,  —  it  could  teach  him  nothing  more.  In 
the  attic  of  the  house  he  kept  his  collections  of  eggs, 
flowers,  and  Indian  relics,  and  here  he  did  his  writ- 
ing. The  house  was  smaller  then,  for  Alcott  had 
not  added  his  study;  the  interior  has  since  been 
much  changed.  But  in  this  house  Thoreau  felt  the 
strong  culminating  passion  of  his  life. 

As  the  slavery  question  pressed  more  and  more 
upon  the  country,  Thoreau  felt  it  as  deeply  affect- 
ing him.  John  Brown  came  to  Concord,  and  the 
naturalist  was  impassioned  for  his  cause.  The  two 
had  a  long  talk  together,  in  the  Main  Street  house. 
Brown's  attempt  at  Harper's  Ferry  and  his  imprison- 
ment drew  from  Thoreau  the  strong  "Plea  for  Cap- 
tain John  Brown"  which  he  repeated  at  many 
places.  Never  did  Thoreau  come  more  out  of  him- 
self than  at  this  time.  His  critics  had  reproached 
him  with  coldness  and  aloofness,  but  now  he  showed 
himself  entirely  human. 

It  was  the  last  great  chapter  of  the  experience  with 
life  which  he  had  so  ardently  desired.  Exposure  in 
the  woods  brought  on  a  serious  illness,  from  which 
even  his  vigorous  frame  never  recovered.  Con- 
sumption slowly  wasted  him  away.     His  dying  was 

[ISO] 


Chiefly   Literary 

like  some  of  the  heroic  endurances  of  his  outdoor 
life,  and  he  studied  it  in  the  same  way.  He  was 
cheerful,  he  bore  sleeplessness  well,  and  he  vividly 
described  the  dreams  that  came  in  his  fitful  repose. 
When  he  could  no  longer  climb  the  stairs,  he  had  his 
bed  brought  down  to  the  parlor  that  looked  upon 
the  street,  in  order  to  see  the  passers-by.  His 
famous  friends  came  to  see  him ;  and  when  in  their 
awe  of  the  sick  man  the  children  did  not  come,  he 
asked  for  them.  "I  love  them  as  if  they  were  my 
own."  So  they,  as  well  as  his  older  friends,  made 
his  sick  bed  pleasant.  In  his  last  letter  he  wrote, 
"I  am  enjoying  existence  as  much  as  ever,  and  re- 
gret nothing."  In  May,  1862,  very  peacefully  he 
died. 

Beyond  this  Main  Street  house  (where  cling  those 
sadder  memories  of  Thoreau  which  can  be  associated 
with  his  indoor  life)  on  Elm  Street,  and  bordering  the 
river,  stands  the  picturesque  residence  of  Frank 
B.  Sanborn,  a  younger  contemporary  of  Concord's 
great  men.  Coming  to  Concord  in  1855,  at  tne  re_ 
quest  of  Emerson  and  several  other  citizens  who 
desired  a  superior  school  for  their  children,  he 
taught  here  for  eight  years,  and  has  resided  here  for 
most  of  the  remaining  time.  He  was  a  leader  in  the 
joyous  dramatics  in  which  the  Alcott  sisters  and  his 

[151] 


Old  Concord 

own  scholars  took  such  happy  part.  He  was  well 
acquainted  with  the  notable  men,  accounts  of  whom 
he  has  passed  on  to  us.  In  the  days  when  to  be  an 
abolitionist  had  its  dangers,  Mr.  Sanborn  became 
prominent  as  the  friend  of  John  Brown.  Brown 
twice  visited  him  in  Concord,  once  in  a  house  owned 
by  Channing,  then  standing  opposite  Thoreau's,  and 
once  in  the  house  directly  behind  the  Thoreau  house, 
which  during  recent  years  has  been  occupied  as  a 
girls'  school.  Mr.  Sanborn  was  one  of  those  north- 
ern men  who  were  aware  that  Brown  was  preparing 
some  movement  for  the  freeing  of  the  slaves,  and 
who  were  providing  him  with  money. 

As  a  consequence,  after  the  Harper's  Ferry  raid 
occurred  that  incident  in  Concord  of  which  the 
newspapers  of  the  day  were  very  full,  —  Mr.  San- 
born's attempted  abduction.  Officers  sent  by  the 
Sergeant-at-arms  of  the  United  States  Senate  sur- 
prised him  in  his  house  at  night,  showed  a  war- 
rant, and  tried  to  force  him  into  a  carriage.  Though 
handcuffed,  he  resisted  stoutly,  and  his  sister's  calls 
brought  help.  The  neighbors  prevented  the  success 
of  the  attempt ;  and  Judge  Hoar,  hearing  the  noise 
and  guessing  its  cause,  had  already  started  to  fill 
out  a  writ  of  habeas  corpus  before  a  summons  came 
for  him  to  do  so.     The  sheriff  presented  the  writ  to 

[15*] 


VJ 


The  Sanborn  House  from  the  River 


Chiefly   Literary 

the  officers,  who,  after  the  rough  handling  they  had 
had,  were  glad  to  give  up  their  prisoner.  Legal 
means  prevented  the  repetition  of  the  event. 

Mr.  Sanborn  was  for  years  in  the  employ  of  the 
State  of  Massachusetts  ;  he  has  long  been  associated 
with  the  Springfield  Republican  as  editor  and  cor- 
respondent ;  he  has  edited  the  works  of  others,  and 
has  published  his  own  poems  and  writings.  During 
the  life  of  the  School  of  Philosophy,  he  was  its  secre- 
tary, and  was  also  a  lecturer  in  it.  That  shy  genius, 
Ellery  Channing,  spent  the  last  years  of  his  life  in 
Mr.  Sanborn's  home.  The  building  Mr.  Sanborn 
erected  for  himself ;  with  its  dark  front  and  tangled 
shrubbery  it  seems  as  withdrawn  as  Hawthorne's 
own.  From  the  "three-arched  stone  bridge"  that 
stands  close  by,  the  stepped  brick  end  of  the  tall 
house  seems  to  stand  somberly  above  the  quiet 
river.  "The  last  of  the  Concord  School,"  as  Mr. 
Sanborn  is  often  called,  is  easily  recognized  in  Con- 
cord streets  by  his  tall,  stooping  figure,  his  white 
locks,  and  his  rapid  stride. 

The  limits  of  this  survey  of  Concord  allow  no  room 
for  other  houses,  whether  of  local  or  more  general 
interest.  Neither  is  it  here  possible  to  do  much 
more  than  to  indicate  the  charm  of  the  old  streets. 
Concord  was  not  planned :    it  grew,  and  its  roads 

[i5S] 


Old  Concord 

seldom  run  straight  for  more  than  a  little  distance. 
The  half-mile  of  Main  Street  beginning  at  the 
Library  gives  almost  the  longest  vista  uninterrupted 
by  rise  or  turn ;  under  its  arching  trees  the  wide 
road  is,  winter  or  summer,  very  beautiful.  Else- 
where the  roads  meander  gently,  following  the 
slight  contours  of  the  ground ;  they  are  generously 
broad,  comfortably  shaded.  In  spite  of  the  fact 
that  Concord's  site  was  chosen  because  of  its 
meadows,  it  is  only  in  the  center  of  the  town  that 
there  is  any  uniformity  of  level.  The  undulations 
of  the  roads,  therefore,  add  another  charm.  Be- 
sides the  elms  that  line  them,  the  streets  are  edged 
by  the  shrubberies  and  hedges  of  residences  that 
show  the  simple  variations  of  colonial  architecture. 
Outside  the  town  the  meadows,  cultivated  fields, 
and  woods,  always  with  glimpses  of  gently  rising 
hills,  give  varied  views.  If  in  America  there  is 
anything  that  speaks  simply  and  feelingly  of  the 
older  times,  it -is  a  New  England  town.     Concord, 

—  dignified,  picturesque,  homelike,   and  still  vital, 

—  is  notable  among  its  kind. 


[156] 


"The    Burying    Grounds 


IV 


IN  any  town  as  old  as  Concord,  the  graves  natu- 
rally attract  attention,  from  the  interest  either 
in  stones  recording  famous  names,  or  in  the  me- 
morials of  forgotten  dead  whose  epitaphs  are  odd 
or  quaint.  Concord's  two  older  cemeteries,  on 
Main  Street  and  on  the  hill,  have  abundant  interest 
of  the  latter  kind. 

These  two  enclosures  traditionally  contend  for 
priority;  but  since  the  earlier  graves  for  many 
years  had  no  stones  at  all,  this  matter  cannot  be 
settled  except  by  the  conjecture  that  the  earlier 
burials  took  place  upon  the  hill,  near  the  original 
church.  Both  of  these  cemeteries  contain  stones 
of  the  seventeenth  century,  bearing  the  names  of 
old  Concord  families. 

In  those  early  days,  and  for  a  long  time  afterward, 
people  were  more  given  to  epitaphs  than  we  are  now. 

[159] 


Old  Concord 

The  virtues  of  the  departed  were  impressed  upon  the 
reader,  sometimes  with  an  incongruity  that  provokes 
a  smile.  Mr.  Job  Brooks,  who  died  at  ninety-one, 
was  cautiously  "considered  by  survivors  as  having 
come  to  the  grave  in  a  full  age."  His  wife  "lived 
with  her  said  husband  upward  of  sixty-five  years, 
and  died  in  the  hope  of  a  resurrection  to  a  better 
life."  Tilly  Merrick  "had  an  excellent  art  in  family 
government."  The  pompous  epitaph  is  excellently 
displayed  on  the  tombstone  of  James  Minot,  "Esq. 
A.  M.,"  for  here  it  is  stated  that  he  was  "An  excell- 
ing grammarian;  enriched  with  the  gift  of  prayer 
and  preaching;  a  commanding  officer;  a  physician 
of  great  value ;  a  great  lover  of  peace  as  well  as  of 
justice;  and  which  was  his  greatest  glory,  a  gent'n 
of  distinguished  virtue  and  goodness,  happy  in  a 
virtuous  posterity;  and,  living  religiously,  died 
comfortably,  September  20,  1735,  aged  83." 

Yet  on  the  other  hand  there  are  here  inscriptions 
which  by  their  simple  recital  of  manly  traits  bear 
conviction  with  them.  Such  is  the  case  with  the 
epitaph  of  the  son  of  the  foregoing,  Timothy  Minot, 
schoolmaster  and  licensed  preacher.  "He  was  a 
preacher  of  the  gospel  whose  praise  was  in  all  the 
churches :  a  school-master  in  Concord  for  many 
years :   his  actions  were  governed  by  the  dictates  of 

[160] 


The  Burying   Grounds 

his  conscience;  he  was  a  lover  of  peace;  given  to 
hospitality ;  a  lover  of  good  men ;  sober,  just,  tem- 
perate; a  faithful  friend,  a  good  neighbour,  an  ex- 
cellent husband,  a  tender,  affectionate  parent,  and  a 
good  master." 

Besides  these  claims  to  virtue,  the  old  stones 
frequently  bear  moral  sentiments  or  serious  reflec- 
tions, always  best  in  the  form  of  quotations  from 
the  Bible.  But  our  ancestors  felt  also  the  attrac- 
tiveness of  poetry,  and  in  Concord  cemeteries  we 
have  many  examples  of  the  species  of  sacred  dog- 
gerel which  was  almost  stereotyped  for  generations, 
but  of  which  there  are  amusing  variations.  Thus 
little  Charlotty  Ball  says  : 

"My  dady  and  my  mamy  dears,  dry  up  your  tears, 
Here  I  must  lie  till  Christ  appears." 

and  Archibald  Smith,  a  Baptist,  takes  occasion  to 
suggest  his  "persuasion"  in  the  verse: 

"The  just  shall,  from  their  mouldering  dust, 
Ascend  the  mansions  of  the  blest, 
Where  Paul  and  Silas  and  John  the  Baptist 
And  all  the  saints  forever  rest." 

In  interest  the  Hill  Burying-ground  surpasses  the 
cemetery  on  Main  Street.  It  has  first  the  advan- 
tage that  here  are  buried  men  of  more  importance 
in  the  town.     Here  lie  those  early  pastors  of  Con- 

[161] 


Old  Concord 

cord,  Daniel  Bliss,  William  Emerson,  and  Ezra 
Ripley;  here  are  the  graves  of  some  of  the  town's 
benefactors,  John  Beaton,  Doctor  Cuming,  and 
Hugh  Cargill;  and  here  also  are  buried  those  two 
heroes  of  the  Fight,  Barrett  who  gave  the  order  to 
attack  the  British,  and  Buttrick  who  executed  it. 
But  apart  from  this,  the  little  cemetery  has  the 
advantage  of  picturesqueness.  As  one  climbs  to  the 
summit  of  the  ridge,  the  stony  path,  the  tall  slender 
trees,  the  ordered  stones,  all  pointing  upward,  make 
a  symbolic  composition  not  readily  forgotten.  Or 
from  the  top,  looking  downward,  one  sees  first  the 
quaint  table-tombs  of  the  old  worthies,  the  rows  of 
graves,  and  then  through  the  trees,  —  best  shown 
when  these  are  leafless,  —  reminders  of  the  living 
world :  the  Square  and  Milldam  with  their  groups 
of  people,  the  First  Parish  Meeting-house,  and  St. 
Bernard's  Church.  Thus  very  near  to  life,  yet 
with  the  peace  of  the  other  world,  the  old  cemetery 
lures  with  its  contrasts. 

But  one  stone,  humbly  set  apart,  brings  more 
visitors  to  this  spot  than  do  its  other  interests  or 
beauties.  It  marks  the  grave  of  a  man  insignificant 
in  his  life,  and  remembered  only  for  an  epitaph 
which  has  been  more  widely  quoted  and  translated 
than   has   any  other  of   Concord's   literary  works 

[162] 


The  Burying   Grounds 

except  the  writings  of  Emerson.     It  was  penned  by 
Emerson's  great-uncle,  Daniel  Bliss  the  Tory. 

In  the  days  when  the  struggle  of  the  Revolution 
was  drawing  near,  and  when  Bliss  saw  his  hopes  of 
his  future  vanishing  away  in  the  new  doctrines  of 
liberty,  there  died  in  Concord  a  negro  who  had  but 
recently  been  a  slave.  With  a  cynicism  showing  no 
tenderness  for  the  man,  Bliss  made  him  immortal 
by  an  epitaph.  It  contained  a  satire  on  the  times, 
on  freedom,  on  human  nature  itself.  People  study 
it  to-day  for  its  clear  antithesis  and  cutting  phrases ; 
but  we  may  remember  too  that  it  throws  a  light 
upon  one  feature  of  our  country's  history,  also  that 
it  reflects  the  bitter  feeling  of  a  disappointed  man. 

God  wills  us  free,  man  wills  us  slaves. 
I  will  as  God  wills,  God's  will  be  done. 
Here  lies  the  body  of 
John  Jack 
A  native  of  Africa  who  died 
March  1773,  aged  about  sixty  years. 
Tho'  born  in  a  land  of  slavery- 
He  was  born  free. 
Tho'  he  lived  in  a  land  of  liberty 
He  lived  a  slave. 

Till  by  his  honest,  tho*  stolen  labors, 
He  acquired  the  source  of  slavery, 
Which  gave  him  his  freedom, 
Tho*  not  long  before 
Death  the  grand  tyrant, 

[163] 


Old  Concord 

Gave  him  his  final  emancipation, 
And  set  him  on  a  footing  with  kings. 
Tho*  a  slave  to  vice 
He  practised  those  virtues 
Without  which  kings  are  but  slaves. 

The  grave  of  John  Jack  lies  over  the  top  of  the 
lower  part  of  the  ridge,  and  can  be  found  by  follow- 
ing the  worn  track  which  branches  where  the  main 
path  turns  to  climb  to  the  summit.  It  has  always 
been  an  object  of  interest;  the  early  weather-worn 
stone  was  replaced ;  and  in  antislavery  days  the 
grave  was  tended,  as  if  it  were  a  symbol  of  the  for- 
tunes of  the  down-trodden  race,  by  Miss  Mary 
Rice,  whose  house  stands  not  far  from  the  rear  of 
the  cemetery.  It  was  this  spinster  who  planted 
the  lilies  which  yearly,  by  their  blossoms,  recall  not 
only  the  slave,  but  also  the  devoted  lady  and  the 
cause  for  which  she  worked. 

Concord's  most  famous  cemetery  is  Sleepy  Hol- 
low. From  the  Square  it  is  reached  by  Bedford 
Street,  going  past,  or  through,  an  older  burying- 
ground.  Beyond  this  for  many  years  the  hollow 
lay  in  natural  beauty,  its  amphitheater  a  farmer's 
field,  its  steep  surrounding  ridges  wooded.  The 
name  of  Sleepy  Hollow  was  early  given  it ;  nature- 
lovers  took  pleasure  in  it,  and  it  was  a  favorite  re- 

[i64] 


The  Burying   Grounds 

sort  of  Concord  writers.  In  especial,  Hawthorne 
was  fond  of  it.  "I  sat  down  to-day,"  he  wrote 
during  his  stay  at  the  Manse,  "...  in  Sleepy 
Hollow.  .  .  .  The  present  season,  a  thriving  field 
of  Indian  corn,  now  in  its  most  perfect  growth,  and 
tasseled  out,  occupies  nearly  half  the  hollow;  and 
it  is  like  the  lap  of  bounteous  nature,  filled  with 
breadstuff."  He  writes  elsewhere  of  meeting  there 
Margaret  Fuller  and  Emerson.  And  he  and  his 
wife  looked  forward  fondly  to  a  time  when  they 
might  build  themselves  a  "castle"  on  the  steepest 
ridge.     He  lies  there  buried  now,  on  the  very  spot. 

In  1855  the  Hollow  and  adjoining  land  were  taken 
for  a  cemetery.  Wisely,  the  laying  out  was  very 
simple.  At  the  formal  dedication,  Emerson  made 
an  address,  Channing  read  a  dedicatory  poem,  and 
an  ode  by  Frank  B.  Sanborn  was  sung  —  truly 
prophetic  in  its  lines : 

"These  waving  woods,  these  valleys  low, 
Between  these  tufted  knolls, 
Year  after  year  shall  dearer  grow, 
To  many  loving  souls." 

Its  half  century  of  age  and  clustering  associations 
have  made  Sleepy  Hollow  celebrated  throughout 
America. 

Whether  one  approaches  through  the  older  ceme- 

[16s] 


Old  Concord 

tery  or  direct  from  Bedford  Street,  the  entrance  to 
the  Hollow  is  peculiarly  pleasing.  Two  ridges  face 
each  other  like  a  gateway,  guarding  a  little  rise  of 
the  road ;  from  a  little  distance  one  notices  between 
them  a  line  of  treetops ;  then  almost  abruptly  the 
Hollow  opens  to  the  view,  —  right,  left,  and  beneath. 
The  steep  nearer  bank  at  first  conceals  the  level  of 
the  amphitheater,  which  lies  in  a  long,  irregular  oval, 
in  full  sun.  Peaceful  it  is  as  when,  many  years  ago, 
the  name  was  given  it;  the  curving  lines  of  graves 
do  but  mark  its  quietude  as  permanent,  and  em- 
phasize the  appropriateness  of  its  name.  The  two 
protecting  ridges  sweep  around  it  from  both  sides ; 
their  tall  trees  enhance  the  seclusion.  Their  lines 
lead  the  wandering  eye  finally  to  a  closer  attention  of 
what  at  first  sight  the  visitor  considers  merely  as  the 
attractive  completion  of  the  enclosing  hills,  —  the  op- 
posite ridge,  which  rises  finely  from  its  screen  of  hem- 
locks at  the  bottom  to  the  tops  of  its  crowning  pines. 
But  then  one  sees  that  the  ridge  is  thickly  marked 
with  graves.  The  broken  hemlock  cover  reveals 
their  stones ;  they  show  above  it  through  the  boles 
of  the  taller  trees.  An  indented  line  of  stones 
stands  along  the  crest  of  the  hill,  marking  that 
Ridge  Path  to  which,  after  his  first  long  study  is 
satisfied,  the  visitor  turns  his  steps. 

[166] 


Hawthorne's  Grave  in  Sleepy  Hollow  Cemetery 


The  Burying   Grounds 

The  road  to  the  left  is  Hawthorne's  cart-track. 
From  it  one  looks  along  the  solemn  Hollow,  or  back 
at  the  dark  tomb  in  the  entrance  ridge.  It  was  by 
this  road  that  Hawthorne  sat,  to  listen  to  the  birds 
in  the  trees  above,  or  in  imagination  to  build  his 
castle  on  the  hill  that  steeply  rose  in  front. 

As  one  climbs  the  path  from  the  Hollow,  Haw- 
thorne's grave  is  the  first  to  be  seen  at  the  crest.  It 
lies  in  a  retirement  like  his  own  through  life,  within 
a  cedar  hedge.  Below,  through  the  trees,  the  Hol- 
low shows  distant  and  withdrawn :  it  was  thus  in 
life  that  he  viewed  the  world,  and  thus  his  spirit 
could  view  it  still.  Across  the  path  are  to  be  seen, 
on  the  very  edge  of  the  descent,  the  several  graves 
of  the  Thoreau  family,  their  names  and  dates  of 
birth  and  death  upon  one  common  stone,  with  small 
headstones  to  mark  the  resting-places  of  Henry  and 
his  less  famous  relatives.  Near  by  are  the  stones 
of  the  Alcotts,  those  of  the  parents  and  three  younger 
daughters  side  by  side,  and  of  the  elder  sister  and  her 
husband,  John  Pratt,  in  an  adjoining  lot.  Here, 
then,  in  a  space  of  but  a  few  square  rods,  lie  at  rest 
these  three  families  of  friends  and  neighbors,  as- 
sociated in  death  as  in  life. 

Further  along  Ridge  Path  is  the  grave  of  Emerson. 
Under  tall  pines  it  is  marked  by  a  great  fragment  of 

[169] 


Old  Concord 

rose  quartz,  on  whose  face  is  a  modest  bronze  tablet 
with  his  own  couplet, 

"The  passive  master  lent  his  hand 
To  the  vast  Soul  which  o'er  him  planned." 

Within  the  plot  where  the  body  of  the  master  lies 
are  grouped  the  gravestones  of  his  family :  his 
mother  and  his  famous  aunt,  his  "hyacinthine  boy" 
who  died  in  childhood,  and  the  daughter  who  tended 
his  old  age.  And  studying  these,  one  sees  here  re- 
vived the  ancient  custom  of  inscribing  epitaphs. 
Their  stately  phrases  establish  the  worth  of  lives  of 
simple  dignity  and  usefulness ;  one  cannot  but  pon- 
der on  them. 

Read  some  of  these  striking  words.  Of  Emerson's 
mother:  "Her  grand-children  who  learned  their 
letters  at  her  knee  remember  her  as  a  serene  and 
serious  presence,  her  sons  regarded  her  with  entire 
love  and  reverence,  and  in  the  generation  to  which 
she  belonged  it  was  said  of  her  that  she  resembled 
a  vessel  laid  up  unto  the  Lord,  of  polished  gold 
without  and  full  of  heavenly  manna  within."  Of 
his  aunt :  "  She  gave  high  counsels  —  it  was  the 
privilege  of  certain  boys  to  have  this  immeasurably 
high  standard  indicated  to  their  childhood,  a  bless- 
ing which  nothing  else  in  education  could  supply." 

[  170] 


The  Burying   Grounds 

Of  his  wife :  "The  love  and  care  for  her  husband 
and  children  was  her  first  earthly  interest,  but  with 
overflowing  compassion  her  heart  went  out  to  the 
slave,  the  sick,  and  the  dumb  creation.  She  re- 
membered them  that  were  in  bonds  as  bound  with 
them."  And  of  the  daughter  still  so  affectionately 
remembered  in  Concord :  "  She  loved  her  Town. 
She  lived  the  simple  and  hardy  life  of  old  New 
England,  but  exercised  a  wide  and  joyful  hospitality, 
and  she  eagerly  helped  others.  Of  a  fine  mind,  she 
cared  more  for  persons  than  books,  and  her  faith 
drew  out  the  best  in  those  around  her." 

This  striking  group  of  memorial  stones,  of  him 
who  needs  no  epitaph  and  of  those  whose  lives  were 
worthy  of  such  praise,  is  scarcely  to  be  equaled  any- 
where in  America.  It  makes  evident  what  is  often 
forgotten,  —  the  human  relationships  of  the  great 
philosopher.  And  this  noble  family  becomes  a  lofty 
type  of  what  is  best  in  our  American  homes  of 
simple  tastes,  quiet  lives,  and  high  ideals. 

Another  Concord  family,  the  Hoars,  buried  close 
by  at  the  foot  of  the  ridge,  is  remarkable  for  its 
record  of  public  service.  Their  graves  lie  clustered 
about  the  massive  monument  of  Samuel  Hoar,  who 
during  his  early  life  was  the  acknowledged  leader  of 
the  Middlesex  Bar.     In  his  later  years,  after  serving 

[171] 


Old  Concord 

a  term  in  Congress,  he  gave  himself  up  to  political 
and  philanthropic  services.  His  best  remembered 
act  was  his  journey  to  Charleston,  South  Carolina, 
in  1844,  to  protest  in  the  name  of  Massachusetts 
against  regulations  affecting  free  colored  seamen. 
In  the  public  excitement  thus  occasioned,  his  life 
was  in  danger,  but  he  bore  himself  with  calm  cour- 
age and  wise  judgment.  Around  him  lie  buried  his 
daughter  Elizabeth,  the  friend  of  Emerson  and 
many  notable  people,  a  woman  whose  intellect  and 
character  were  perhaps  as  fine  as  any  that  Concord 
has  produced;  his  son  George  Frisbie,  for  many 
years  United  States  Senator  from  Massachusetts; 
and  also  his  son  Ebenezer  Rockwood,  best  known  as 
Judge  Hoar,  a  member  of  Grant's  cabinet,  and 
famous  for  his  public  spirit,  legal  wisdom,  and 
flashing  wit.  And  here  once  more  are  modern 
epitaphs  worth  study.  Other  members  of  this 
family,  who  continued  its  record  of  ability  and 
public  service,  lie  buried  elsewhere  in  the  cemetery. 
Concord  remembers  that  these  men,  besides  being 
of  national  importance,  were  devoted  to  its  local 
needs.  It  is  families  such  as  these  that  have  made 
our  American  institutions  what  they  are,  and  have 
maintained  the  highest  ideals  of  public  service. 
The  gravestone  of  Ephraim  Wales  Bull,  the  orig- 

[  172] 


^i^^"^r 


^1yUVUf4',U 


/  x/ 


^■-v*^/— 


/  / 


The  Ridge  in  Sleepy  Hollow  Cemetery 


The  Burying   Grounds 

inator  of  the  Concord  grape,  is  not  far  from  this 
enclosure  of  the  Hoars. 

Apart  from  the  interest  in  Sleepy  Hollow  which 
arises  from  its  famous  graves,  there  is  another,  its 
beauty.  Its  natural  advantages  have  been  made 
the  most  of  in  its  roads  and  paths ;  they  have  even 
been  gradually  improved.  There  are  handsome 
monuments  in  the  cemetery.  Unquestionably  the 
finest  is  the  Melvin  memorial,  sculptured  by  Daniel 
C.  French,  erected  to  commemorate  four  Concord 
brothers,  all  soldiers  in  the  Civil  War. 

To  see  Sleepy  Hollow  most  intimately  one  should 
go  when  it  is  undisturbed  by  human  voice.  When 
the  early  sun  casts  long  shadows,  when  the  dusk  is 
stealing  on,  when  the  unbroken  expanse  of  snow 
lies  level  above  the  graves  —  these  are  the  times  when 
the  silence  of  the  place  is  vocal  to  the  thoughtful  ear. 

Yet  if  one  would  see  the  cemetery  at  its  most 
impressive,  let  him  go  on  Decoration  Day,  when 
the  place  is  thronged,  when  the  cannon  boom  their 
minute  guns,  and  when  the  veterans  of  two  wars, 
with  flags  and  melancholy  bugles,  come  with  wreaths 
of  flowers  to  pay  tribute  to  the  comrades  that  have 
gone  before. 


[i7Sl 


Envoi 


fS/1 


ENVOI 

IT  may  sometimes  seem,  to  those  inclined  to 
criticize,  that  Concord  has  been  unduly  favored, 
or  that  being  so,  it  has  plumed  itself  too  greatly 
on  advantages  that  now  are  past.  It  is  of  course 
unique  to  have  so  many  memorials  in  one  small 
area.  The  battle-field,  the  houses  of  literary  in- 
terest, Walden  with  its  unusual  story,  and  the 
famous  graves,  —  it  would  be  indeed  remarkable 
if  any  town  should  not  boast  itself  of  these.  But 
Concord  is  not  living  on  its  past ;  it  has  its  present 
interests,  and  is  attending  to  them.  The  tide  of 
tourists  little  disturbs  the  business  of  its  streets. 
And  Concord  feels  as  others  do  who  look  back  to 
achievements  separated  from  the  present  by  such 
wide  intervals.  They  are  no  longer  local.  Time 
has  made  them  common  property. 

One  studying  the  earlier  generations  finds  good 

[  179] 


Old  Concord 

material  in  Concord,  that  is  all.  The  hardships  and 
the  courage  of  the  founders  have  left  here  pathetic 
and  inspiring  reminders.  The  deeds  of  our  ances- 
tors who  freed  us  have  their  memorial  here.  Here 
too  those  great  in  thought  and  literary  art  have 
carved  their  message  deep.  And  there  is  more. 
The  voiceless  generations  have  left  their  footprints 
in  this  place,  so  that  from  the  earliest  times  till  now 
the  student  can  trace  their  progress  in  all  ways  that 
affect  human  comfort  and  happiness.  Here  we 
have,  then,  compressed,  condensed,  those  typical 
events  which  make  the  life  of  that  essential  factor 
in  the  progress  of  the  New  World,  an  American 
town. 

The  present  is  (and  speaking  generally  the  pres- 
ent always  will  be)  crowded  with  critical  problems 
pressing  to  be  solved.  We  never  shall  find  safer 
guidance  for  their  solution  than  in  a  study  of  the 
past.  In  Concord,  among  so  many  noble  memo- 
ries, earnest  lovers  of  America  will  find  inspiration 
for  the  duties  and  decisions  of  to-day. 


[180] 


Index 


INDEX 


Academy,  143. 
Academy  Lane,  141,  143. 
Acton,  32. 

Adams,  Samuel,  44,  61. 
"Alarm  company  ",  The,  45,  46. 
Alcott,  Abba  May  (Mrs.  Alcott), 
117,  118,  121,  122. 
Amos   Bronson,   4,    11,    112, 
114,    us,    117,    118,    127, 
130,  136,  145,  146. 
Anna,  119. 

Elizabeth,  80,  119,  123. 
Louisa  May,  107,  117,   119, 
120, 121, 122, 123, 127, 128, 
129,  130. 
May,  119. 
The  Alcott  Family,  1 12-13 1. 
Alcott  Houses  :  "Cottage  ",  86, 
89,  114,  115,  117. 
"Orchard    House",    83,    84, 

123,  124. 
"Thoreau- Alcott",  86,  87. 
Antiquarian  Society,  1,  108,  109. 
Assabet  River,  101,  102. 

Bank  Robbery,  15. 
Barrett,  Amos,  49,  63,  68. 

James,  Colonel,  54,  55,  60,  162. 

Mrs.  James,  55,  56. 
Bartlett,  Doctor,  14. 
Bedford  Street,  4,  16,  80. 
Bigelow,  Edwin,  12. 
Bigelow's  Tavern,  9,  51. 
Black  Horse  Church,  40. 
Bliss,  Daniel,  the  minister,  38, 162. 

Daniel,  the  Tory,  38,  39,  40,  43, 
44,  54,  60,  73,  163. 

Phebe,  38. 
Block  House,  86. 


Brister's  Hill,  84,  85. 

British  soldiers,  Grave  of,  74,  75. 

British  spies,  43,  54. 

Brown,  John,  13,  150,  152. 

Bulkeley,  Rev.  Peter,  29,  30,  31, 

32,  33- 
Bull,  Ephraim  W.,  138-140,  172- 

173. 
Buttrick,  David,  13,  14. 
Humphrey,  13. 

John,  Major,  60,  61,  62,  63,  64, 
164. 

Catholic  Church,  4,  6,  80,  162. 
Channing,    William    Ellery,    the 
poet,  11,  99,  100,  101,  146, 
165. 
Christian  Science  Church,  4,  6. 
Colonial  Inn,  1,  23. 
Concord,   before  the  settlement, 
25,  26. 
description    of,    37-38,    79-89, 

I5S-I56. 
To-day,  179,  180. 
Fight,  see  Chapter  2. 

Why    at    Concord,     42-43 ; 
Revere' s  warning,  44;   the 
muster,  46 ;   coming  of  the 
British,    49;     their    slight 
success,    50-52 ;     Pitcairn 
and  his  boast,  53-54;   the 
Bridge,  55;   the  American 
advance,  61-62;    the  skir- 
mish, 62-63 ;    the   British 
retreat,  64-65,  68. 
Grape,  84,  139-140,  175- 
River,  100,  1 01. 
settlement  of,  26-31. 
"Constitution",  frigate,  19. 


[183] 


Index 


"County  House",  4,  6. 

Court   House,   4,  9,   45,   79;    in 

1800,  15;  in  1700,  25. 
Curtis,  George  William,  145. 

D.  A.  R.  Chapter  House,  81,  83. 
Davis,  Isaac,  of  Acton,  61,  62,  63. 
Deerfield,  25. 

Egg  Rock,  ioi. 
Eliot,  John,  32. 

Emerson,  Mary  Moody,  59,  170. 
Ralph  Waldo,  9, 10, 12, 91,  93, 
97,  98,  105-114,  117,  145, 
165,  169,  170,  171. 
William,  9,  10,  46,  49,  50,  59, 

63,  72,  89,  162. 
Waldo,  in,  170. 
Epitaphs,  170-171. 
House,  9,  77 ,  83,  105,  106,  143. 
The  study,  107,  108,  109. 
Epitaphs,  160,  161,  163,  170,  171, 
172. 

"Fairyland",  85. 

Feltoriy  Septimius,  49,  65,  66,  67, 

135- 
Fire  engine,  in  1800,  16. 
French,  Daniel  Chester,  74,  175. 
Fruitlands,  117. 
Fuller,  Margaret,  117,  118,  165. 

Gage,  Gen.  Thomas,  41. 
Grapevine  Cottage,  84,  138,  140. 
Great  Meadows,  26,  49,  84. 
Green  store,  6. 

Hancock,  John,  44. 

Harvard  College  in  Concord,  72. 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  10,  49,  65, 
84,  92,  93-105,  131-138, 
145,  165,  167,  169. 

Hemlocks,  The,  101,  103. 

Heywood  house,  83. 


Hill  Burying-ground,  4,  157,  159, 

161-164. 
"Hillside",  .^"Wayside." 
Hoar,  John,  49. 

E.  R.  (Judge  Hoar),  142. 
George    F.    (Senator  Hoar), 

172. 
Samuel,  22,  171,  172. 
Family  houses,  86. 
graves,  1 71-172. 
Hosmer,  Joseph,  39,  40,  60,  61,  72. 
Howells,  Wm.  D.,  106,  136. 

Indians  in  Concord,  26-28,  31, 
32,  101,  102. 

Jack,  John,  grave  of,  163-164. 
Jail,  6,  16. 
Jail  Tavern,  16. 
Jarvis,  Dr.,  5. 
Jones,  Elisha,  59,  63,  64. 
house,  the,  57,  59,  63,  70. 
John,  29. 

Laurie,  Captain,  56,  57,  60,  62. 
Lee,  Joseph,  the  Tory,  19,  40,  41, 

73- 
Lee's  Hill,  19. 
Lexington  Road,  4,  9,  11,  37,  44, 

49,  65,  80,  83,  105,  140. 
Library,  in  1800,  19. 
Life  in  Concord  in  1850,  12-15. 

in  1800,  18-22. 

in  1750,  22-24. 

in  1700,  25. 
Lowell,  J.  R.,  74. 
Lowell  Road,  79. 

Main  Street,  ii,  37,  86,  87,  156. 
Main  Street  Burying-ground,  51, 

86,  159. 
Manse,  The  Old,  11,  50,  59,  63, 

80,  89-105. 
Masonic  Lodge  (old  school  house), 

4>  6,  143. 


[184] 


Index 


Meeting  House,  First  Parish,  see 

Unitarian  Church. 
Meriam's  Corner,  49,  68,  84,  140, 

frontispiece. 
Middlesex  Grounds,  4,  5,  16. 

Hotel,  5,  16. 
Mill,  16,  51. 
Milldam,  The,  4,  16,  31,  37,  43, 

84,  162. 
Mill  pond,  16,  38,  50. 
Minuteman  Statue,  59,  69,  71,  74. 
Minutemen,  43,  46,  49,  72. 
Monument  of  1836,  69,  73,  91. 
Monument  Street,  3Jy  79>  80. 
Moore  house,  83. 
"Mosses   from   an  Old   Manse," 

102. 
Moulton,  Martha,  52. 

Nashawtuc  Hill,  40. 
Nashoba,  32. 

North  Bridge,  37,  50,  53,  54,  56, 
62,  63,  72,  73,  74,  90,  175. 

Old  Elm  on  the  Square,  16, 17. 

Parsons,  Captain,  55,  56,  64. 

Percy,  Lord,  71. 

Pierce,   Franklin,   102,   132,   136, 

137. 
Pitcairn,  Major,  4,  52,  53,  54,  68. 
Philip's  War,  25. 
Powder  Alarm,  41. 
Preparedness  for  war,  71,  72. 
Provincial  Congress,  42. 
Public  Library,  86,  156. 
Punkatasset  Hill,  50,  59. 

Railway  in  Concord,  5. 
Revere,  Paul,  44,  45. 
Rice,  Mary,  12,  164. 
Ridge  Path,  166,  169,  173. 
Ripley,  Rev.  Ezra,  10,  89-93,  l&2' 
Roads,  15,  155,  156. 


Robinson,  Lt.  Col.,  of  Westford 
62. 

Samplers,  21. 

Sanborn,  Frank  B.,  13,  86,  151, 

152,  153,  I55>  165. 
School  of  Philosophy,  129,  155. 
Shadrach,  12. 
Sleepy  Hollow  Cemetery,  80,  138, 

164-175. 
Smith,  Lt.  Col.,  50,  53,  54,  64,  65, 

68. 
Social  Circle  Memoirs,  14. 
Soldiers'  Monument,  3,  6. 
South  Bridge,  37,  64,  86. 
Square,  The,  at  present,  3-4;   in 

1850,  5-9;  in  1800,  15-16; 

—  32,  37,   46,   50,   51,   52, 

54,  79,  143,  162. 
Stage-coaches,  5. 
Staples,  "Sam",  113,  121. 
Sudbury  River,  101. 
Sudbury  Road,  86. 
Sunday  traveling,  21. 

Tahattawan,  26. 
Temperance  movement,  14,  15. 
Thoreau,  The  Thoreau  aunts,  5. 
Henry  David,  6,  10,  11,  12, 
85>  98,  99>   »I>  112,  136, 
142-151;   at  Walden,  144- 
149;   in  jail,  148-149;   in- 
terest in  slavery,  150,  151 ; 
169. 
John,  10. 

John,  Jr.,  112,  143. 
Cabin,  85,  145-146. 
Cairn,  85. 
Cove,  85. 
House,  on  Square,  6. 

on  Main  St.,  86,  87,  149,  150, 

151- 
Three-arch  stone  bridge,  155. 
Transcendentalists,  12,  109. 


[18s] 


Indt 


ex 


Town  Hall,  4,  9,  16,  25,  37,  51, 

52,  80. 
Town  Pump,  16. 
Two  Brothers'  Rock,  32. 

Underground  Railway  in  Con- 
cord, 12,  13,  146. 

Unitarian  Church,  4,  7,  9,  16,  19, 
25,  39,  42,  80,  162. 

Walden  Pond,  10,  12,  144,  145- 
149,  175- 


"Walden  Pond  Association",  85. 
Walden  Street,  38,  84. 
Warming  pan,  21. 
Warren,  Joseph,  44. 
"Wayside",   84,    117,    124,    131, 

132,  133,  I35>  138. 
Willard,  Simon,  27,  33,  40. 
White,  Deacon,  21,  22,  23. 
Wood,  Ephraim,  41,  72. 
Wright,  Amos,  52,  53. 
Wright  Tavern,   4,   5-6,    16,  37, 

38,  46,  47,  80. 


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